


Masquerade

by Ripki



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, After season one, Angst, Attempts at historical accuracy, Broody Athos, Emotional Baggage, F/M, Friendship, Heavy Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, Mentions of death of a child, POV Multiple, Political Intrigue, Porthos just wants to have some fun, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Spies & Secret Agents, Spoilers for season one, Torture, Venezia | Venice, Violence, broody Aramis, but everything I know I got from Google, so probably not that accurate, tourist d'Artagnan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-26
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-02-14 22:01:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 28
Words: 90,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2204634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ripki/pseuds/Ripki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tasked with preventing a dangerous conspiracy towards the King, the Musketeers are sent to Venice. The infamous city is in the hectic swirl of the Carnival, and nothing is as it seems – including the Musketeers themselves. They have to play a dangerous game amid the many conspirators, spies and enemies. Soon friendships are tested, secrets revealed, treachery confronted and many a self-control stretched to its limit. And when the Carnival finally ends, all masks must be taken off – even if it may prove fatal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

_Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part,_  
 _Nay, I have done; you get no more of me._  
 _And I am glad, yea, glad with all my heart,_  
 _That thus so cleanly I myself can free._

\- Michael Drayton (1563-1631), _Since There’s No Help/Sonnet 61_ -

 

-o-

_September, 1630. Paris._

 

Athos felt a lifetime lighter, when the locket fell from his hand. 

He could hardly believe that the long nightmare might be over, that there could be – not a new beginning, he was too self-aware to believe himself capable of that. If not a beginning, then maybe some kind of peace. He would settle for dreamless, painless sleep. Free from her in dreams and in life. He had let her go, and maybe his tormented conscience, his shattered heart might now finally learn to let go of her too and let him live in peace. 

It was over. And if he felt a twinge of loss and longing for the woman that was now gone from his sight, he could admit it to himself and indulge in it for this small moment. For she was gone, but still alive, and he had loved her once. 

_You know there can be no peace_ – no, it was over. He had to believe that – any other thought was just too damn depressing, even for him.

He walked briskly towards the Musketeers’ garrison, confident that his friends would follow. D’Artagnan and Constance had already parted from their company, the former to ostensibly escort the latter back home. Before they had gone, they had had to endure teasing from both Porthos and Aramis, who good-naturedly had waxed lyrical about young love and its consummation until both recipients had been red in the face. Athos had had nothing to add to their repertoire – any word on love from him would have been at best laughable and at worst grotesque. 

“Why are we on such a hurry?” Aramis inquired, easily keeping pace with his long legs. Both Aramis and Porthos were flanking him, like bodyguards too nervous to let their charge to get even a few feet away from them.

“I want to update Captain Treville as soon as possible.” Athos knew Treville would be waiting anxiously for news on what had happened with the ambush Milady had set for them. He wondered how Treville would react to the information that he had let the Cardinal’s agent go – the woman who was complicit in the attempted assassination of the Queen. Athos had thought that he was ready to kill her, to administer justice for crimes both recent and past. He had been ready five years ago too. But unlike last time, today he had the courage to stay his hand, to let her go. He could not regret that. 

“I’m sure Treville wouldn’t mind us arriving at a little slower pace – and having a few drinks before we get there,” Aramis said, suddenly stopping dead in the middle of the street, Porthos following suit. Perplexed, Athos swiveled to face his friends. They were standing in front of one of their favorite haunts, _The Galleon_ , looking meaningfully at the tavern.

Athos didn’t have to say anything; his dark, unamused look said it for him. Now was not the time for drinks. Captain Treville waited for their report. Furthermore, Athos just wanted to get it all over with. After that he could test his newfound peace by drinking as many bottles of wine as he wished – which was usually quite a lot.

“I think that is a _wonderful_ idea,” Porthos overacted. At Athos’ raised eyebrow, he added, “What? I’m thirsty.”

“I always have the best ideas.” Aramis grinned broadly. 

“You can go if you wish, but I have an appointment.” Athos turned to leave, but Porthos’ hand on his arm halted him. Frustrated, he turned to face his companions once more. He was in no mood for games.

“It’ll keep.” The jest had gone from Aramis’ voice. “Have a drink with us, and let all of Paris stay ignorant of what has happened for a little while longer.” 

Suddenly Athos understood. However confidential their report to Treville would be, it would not stay secret for long – at least not from one person. The Cardinal had an uncanny ability to get to know everything concerning himself, particularly if that something had happened in the streets of Paris, in broad daylight. Just like Captain Treville, the Cardinal would hardly be pleased to find out they had let Milady go. By stalling, they would give her time to get out of Paris, before either of the men decided that she would have to face a firing squad or an assassin’s blade. Athos doubted that his friends were aiding Milady out of concern for her – no, they were doing it for him. 

They had just watched him spare his former wife from death. They didn’t want him to face the same again, be it as a spectator instead of executioner. Moreover, they wanted to give him time to think, to breathe before he had to give his report. So he could better prepare what he would say, or to come to terms with what had happened, or to just be with his friends before being judged in front of their superior officer. Any or all – it didn’t matter to them. They just wanted to give him the chance. 

He was suddenly grateful for his friends anew, for all they had borne by having stood by him. Through all his dark moods, the heavy drinking, the unsociable days he hadn’t been fit company for a dog let alone a human being. He didn’t know what he had done to earn such loyal companions.

“ _One_ drink,” he agreed. Surely he had earned a celebratory drink. After all, it was all over.

-o-

She walked away head held high, refusing to run, refusing to look back. But her heart was still pounding fiercely, _alive_ , and her fingers shook so hard she had to grip her skirts tightly. Twice now she had stared at the face of death ( _his_ face) and survived. It was not any easier the second time. Disgusted, she felt the beginnings of nausea, a sign of weakness she had thought that she had purged herself of long ago. 

Heedless of the traffic in the streets, the curious stares of onlookers, she quickened her steps. She needed to get home, needed to pack and plan – now more than ever, she had to keep her head, had to be able to think – a violent shudder went through her and the urge to vomit was so strong she was already half-turning towards the gutter, before she forced the feeling away with a furious self-discipline. She couldn’t make a scene, couldn’t draw more attention to herself. She could not be undone. 

What on earth was the matter with her? She had had to think on her feet on numerous occasions, she had dodged musket balls and enemies and the noose – this was no different. 

Finally, her lodgings appeared behind the street corner, and she forced herself to slow her pace and to look for tails or pursuers. She could not detect anyone suspicious, and so she hastened to her door, the lock opening with the third shaky try. The sanctuary of her real home was a welcome sight, the chilly rooms a relief against her fevered skin. She was safe there. No one had seen these rooms, not any lover or informant. Certainly not any musketeer. But still – she held no illusions that she could not be found, that the Cardinal didn’t already know where she lived.

“Milady.” Louise was standing at the door of the small parlor, her voice inquiring. She was a smart girl and accustomed to the strange peculiarities of her mistress’ life. No doubt she had already guessed that once again a hasty departure from their current lodgings was imminent. 

“Pack my clothes and essentials – whatever you can fit into the trunk and the two bags.” 

Louise knew not to ask any questions. Without a comment the maid disappeared to fulfill her orders, leaving her mistress to stand in the middle of the parlor. 

She had to get out of Paris quickly. Not because he might change his mind (he had too much honor for that), but because when the Cardinal learned that she had not met her end, he would start to worry that she knew too much about his secrets and schemes. For her dark deeds had mainly been his too. He would seek to silence her. 

But instead of hastening to pack her jewelry and weaponry, instead of getting the money and documents out of their secret hiding place, she sank to the settee, as if her legs couldn’t keep her upright anymore. 

_Enough. It’s over. Kneel._

She was suddenly so tired. All these years, she had hated, with her body and what was left of her soul, and she was exhausted. 

Where could she go now? What would she do? How would she live?

_Athos_ – she still couldn’t believe he had let her go, trembled at the mere memory of it. He had been trying to save his own soul, no doubt, but finally, finally, he had acknowledged that he had made her what she was, the part he had played in it all. And he had not been able to kill her. And she had been ready – suddenly so weary, so tired, her hurt a massive stone dragging her to the bottom of dark waters, and for a moment she had been ready, had been almost glad that it should end like that, at his hand, so he would carry her with him forever and always remember it was _he_ who killed her – his wife. 

But he hadn’t. He hadn’t done it. And she was – not soothed, not grateful, not glad, but after everything, still a little bit in love with him, like she had always been. The hate was duller now; the hurt weighted a little less. But what was she without those? What could she be without the hate that had sustained her for so long? 

_It’s over. It’s over._

She would survive – she always did. Maybe she could begin again, somewhere no one knew her. Maybe she could make a new life for herself, do whatever she wished. Suddenly she realized that for the first time in – ever, really – there was no man she was dependent on. Not her drunk father, not Sarazin, not Athos, not the Cardinal. And that had to be the future. She would not seek another patron, employer or husband to betray her. She would only answer to herself from now on. 

Energized, she sprang to her feet. There was no more time to waste. 

She would live. And like always, she would carve herself a place somewhere, with her wits or body or the sharp blade of her dagger if she had to. There would be no peace, but too much serenity might just break her. Athos – always he would hound her, the memory of their love and his betrayal like sharp shadows close at her heels. And she would always remember how he had spared her and had let her go, the way he had looked at her. _It’s over. Enough._

But the tie between them could not be broken by one act of mercy. It was a strangely comforting thought: he too, would never be free. He would not forget her. They would be tied together, until death would free them at last. Until then, it would never be over.


	2. Secrets

 

_Rien ne pèse tant qu'un secret. (Nothing weighs on us so heavily as a secret.)_

\- Jean de La Fontaine (1621–1695) - 

-o-

_The First of February, 1631. Turin, the capital of the Duchy of Savoy._

 

It was well past midnight, when the personal valet of the Duke of Savoy woke his master. Victor Amadeus I, the _Lion of Susa_ , rose immediately, knowing his valet didn’t dare to wake him for anything but the most important business. Christine of France shifted restlessly, but didn’t wake, when her husband left their bed. The valet draped a velvet dressing gown over the Duke’s nightshirt with expert hands, then holding a candle, led the way through shadowy corridors to the Duke’s personal study. A dozen candles were already burning on each of the side tables, freeing the room from darkness. The light revealed a man, who rose from the chair where he had been waiting, as the Duke strode to the study. Clad in simple traveling attire, the man was broad and obviously in good shape, but otherwise wholly unremarkable. Although the Duke had seen him once, years before, he did not show any signs of recognition. 

“Your Grace.” The man gave a small bow and presented the Duke with a letter. The Duke took a quick glance at the familiar seal, and turned to his valet, who was still dutifully standing by his side. 

“You may leave us.” Politely but wordlessly, the valet followed the order, shutting the door behind him firmly, leaving the two men to gauge each other. The Duke opened the letter; it didn’t take him long to peruse its contents as it only contained a few lines and the signature of the writer. The letter assured that its bearer, Captain Claude Durand, was trustworthy and would tell the Duke all that could not be put down in writing. 

“Captain Durand, I trust this is important, for you to venture in to my home and to wake me in the middle of the night.” The Duke sat down behind his massive oak desk, but didn’t ask his visitor to sit on any of the other chairs in the room. 

“Of course,” Durand said. His expression was carefully blank, but his voice betrayed a hint of irritation. “His Highness stressed the importance of speed – he awaits your answer.”

“Well, then you better tell me his message, while you pour yourself a drink.” The Duke pointed to the side table that held a collection of carafes and glasses. The captain didn’t hesitate. He poured two glasses of strong brandy, keeping hold of one and bringing the other to the Duke’s desk. The Duke sipped his drink approvingly. “You chose my best brandy – you may sit.” 

The Captain sat opposite the desk and took a big gulp of his drink before he asked, almost casually, “Have the news from Paris already reached Savoy?” 

“What news?” The Duke’s voice was sharp. He detested knowing less than the other people in the same room. 

“They have tried to keep it a secret, but no doubt it is common knowledge soon enough.” Durand took another long swig of his drink, savoring the taste – and the suspense he had created. But the Duke would not suffer to wait long, so the Captain continued, “The Queen has given birth prematurely – but the male child was a stillborn.”

“Then –” The Duke sprang to his feet and paced restlessly to the window. “The Duke of Orléans is still the heir.” The world behind the windowpane was dark, but full of new possibilities. 

“Indeed. He and the Duke of Vendôme have decided that now is the ideal moment to act. Even if the Queen were to get pregnant tomorrow – which is highly unlikely – we have nine months to act at least. Moreover, our sources say some of the new members of the Council of Ten are more favorable to our aims than their predecessors. It is the perfect time to make an alliance with them.”

The Duke was nodding in agreement. “Then he is going to Venice?”

“With all haste,” Captain Durand confirmed. “Ostensibly to affirm France’s relationship with the new Doge they are electing, but in reality…” 

“How sure is he to succeed?”

“Nothing is ever certain Your Grace,” Durand didn’t bother to hide his small smirk. “But His Highness can make a convincing case why Venice is better served with Gaston I than Louis XIII on the throne of France.”

“Then what does he want from Savoy?” The Duke still held the glass in his hands. Frowning, he downed the drink in one gulp.

The Captain finished his own drink and put the empty glass pointedly on the Duke’s desk. “He needs you to reaffirm Savoy’s support to his cause.” He took a letter from inside his leather jerkin. This letter was not sealed. Warily, the Duke took it. As he had expected, it was a treaty confirming Savoy’s part in removing Cardinal Richelieu and King Louis XIII from power and it required his signature. For a smallest of moments, the Duke of Savoy hesitated. If the conspiracy was thwarted and Savoy’s part in it ever uncovered…It was a big risk. But without risks, there were no rewards. Moreover, he had already given his word – and he was certainly not a man who broke his word. 

The Duke took his quill and signed his name with stark lines. Then he folded the paper and sealed it with sealing wax and his personal signet. It was done – now Savoy’s future rested with other men. 

Durand did not tarry after getting the letter back. He rose swiftly, gave a shallow bow and turned towards the door. His hand was already on the door handle, when the Duke’s sharp voice stopped him. “Captain, I trust you guard that letter with your life.”

“Of course.” The Captain inclined his head with assent. The Duke didn’t get any more reassurances; Captain Durand opened the door and strode away determinedly. He had a long way to ride that night. 

In the corridor, beside the study door, the long red drapes lining the wall swung lightly. Behind them, the Duchess of Savoy held her breath, not daring to move. She had just managed to hide herself as the door had opened and her younger brother’s envoy had left. Luckily the man hadn’t stopped to wonder why the study door had been slightly ajar. Christine knew she had to get to bed before her husband returned to their bedroom, expecting to find her asleep. She slipped out of her hiding place with silent feet and crept towards her rooms, already thinking how fast she could get a message to the King of France. 

-o-

_The First of February, 1631. Paris._

 

_The Galleon_ was a huge melting pot of noise, smoke and sharp smells, both human and animal. The Red Guards and the Musketeers had had their payday the day before and were now diligently spending their earnings on drinks, gambling and wenches. Porthos had indulged himself with all three and was having a very good time. Maria, one of the women who worked regularly at the tavern, looked pretty enough in the dim light and felt firm and sweet sitting on his lap. He had invested in a wine that was slightly better than the usual slop he could afford, and he had managed to win more than he had lost, annoying some Red Guards in the process. They had been eyeing him from across the room for the last half-hour, clearly thinking about retribution. A fight seemed imminent. All in all, Porthos was having a very good night. It would have been an exceptionally good night, if his companions would have had the good sense to join his merriment. 

As it were, the other three of their company were clearly not in the mood for revelry. Athos was sitting in his usual seat in the darkest corner, embarked on a night of solitary drinking with a grim focus. Nothing unusual, but Porthos had hoped that with the departure of that woman – they never mentioned her name – Athos would have loosened up a bit. But it seemed the man liked to do his drinking alone or at least from a distance to others, and his curt unsociableness hadn't changed in the almost half-year after his murderous former wife had left Paris. Maybe Athos had always been like that and had drank expensive liquor alone in his chateau, until he had been so intoxicated his personal valet had had to carry his sorry self to the soft feathery bed he had undoubtedly slept in. Anyway, his behavior was not unusual and it didn't bother Porthos much. That was just how things had always been: Porthos, Aramis and lately d'Artagnan having a good time while Athos brooded in a corner, silently drinking but still secretly watching over them, ready for trouble. It was the other two that were acting out of character.

D'Artagnan had gambled a little and had drank his usual amount of wine – which never was that much to begin with, at least when compared to the other three – but Porthos could see his heart was not in it. It was not hard to guess that the separation from Constance was weighing on him harder that night. After she had returned to her husband, d'Artagnan had been depressed the first two months, then he had seemed to regain most of his good spirits, but now he was moody again. It probably did not help that almost every man in the tavern had a woman – or two – in their lap or hanging around their neck. _The Galleon_ was full of people, but it was the kind of crowd amid a man could easily feel alone. Like Aramis, who looked deeply lonely, although he was sitting just a few feet away from Porthos, surrounded by rowdy people on all sides. 

Porthos shifted on his seat, nearly dislodging Maria from her perch. The woman exclaimed her dismay, but he hardly noticed. His attention was on Aramis, who was staring morosely at his drink. It was rare that Aramis was taken by a dark mood, rarer still that it lasted two whole weeks. It had to be something serious that was affecting his affable nature, making him listless and restless in turn and unusually short of temper. Aramis bore his ill-mood and hurt in silence, but couldn't help be solitary for long; for days, Porthos had awaited some sign from him that it was safe enough to approach him, to listen what ailed his friend or to help him forget. But no sign had come, no opening he could exploit to carefully enquire what was the matter and how he could make things better. It was worrying Porthos against his will, and now he was most assuredly not having a good time, having to watch Aramis have as much fun as a condemned man en route to his execution. 

“All gone – again!” Maria giggled, upending the bottle, which yielded only few drops of red wine. The table was littered with empty bottles, some – well most – of which had been their doing. They hadn't bothered with cups. “More?” 

“Yeah, you can get more,” Porthos muttered distractedly, putting a few coins into her hand. Maria didn't seem to notice (or care about) his preoccupation as she smiled widely at the money. She smacked a kiss against the corner of his mouth, having obviously missed his lips. Then she rose up and sashayed with surprisingly steady feet towards the barman. Porthos didn't watch her go; his eyes stayed glued to Aramis. 

Maybe he should just say something to Aramis, something that would get the man talking or at least would piss him off enough that he would acknowledge that the people around him – that Porthos – existed. It wouldn't matter if Porthos got better acquainted with Aramis' fists; it was the sullen silence that he couldn't take anymore. Besides, a good fight might just be the medicine Aramis needed. Violence was a well-established outlet, when one couldn't or wouldn't talk to others. It always did wonders to Porthos.

“So, how long do you think they are going to act like idiots?” Porthos asked, trying to soften his intensive gaze. It wouldn't do to expose his motives too early. But Aramis didn't react, and he had to repeat his question twice, each time a little louder. 

When Aramis finally reacted and asked “Who?”, he didn't sound the least bit interested. But he had lifted his eyes from the bottle and was now looking at Porthos, his gaze dull but coherent. He hadn't drank too much then. 

Porthos gestured towards d'Artagnan, who had by now retreated to his own solitary corner. “I'll wager that Constance realizes what a ratty fraud that husband of hers is and finally leaves him after giving him a sound punch – let's say in a fortnight. If things are left to d'Artagnan, he'll brood in that corner forever.” Porthos grinned, trying for levity.

“Sometimes there is nothing to be done.” Eyes dark and face grim, Aramis took another swig from his bottle. “Some people can't be together. She is married to another.”

“It's Bonacieux!” Porthos exclaimed, indignant. “He doesn't deserve her – well, d'Artagnan hardly deserves her either, but at least she loves him.”

Aramis laughed, but his laugh was anything but a sign of mirth. It sounded hollow and tired, full of pain. “People don't get what they _deserve_ – not in this world. The rich and the powerful and the immoral, they take what they want. The poor are left to fight amongst themselves in the gutter. And the good and the dutiful – they have the unluckiest part of all, for they can never break free, but serve and serve until they are hollowed out and nothing is left –” He fell suddenly silent, as if remembering where he was and who he was talking to.

Porthos wasn't thick enough to think that they were still talking about d’Artagnan’s love-life. He knew he was finally close to the heart of the matter; Aramis had involuntarily revealed some of what ailed him. But those were only pieces of the symptoms – what was the cause?

“Surely everyone – well, excluding the cardinals of the world – deserves some happiness? And they have the right to seek that happiness?” He ventured to say. It was like shooting in a pitch dark room; you could only guess the right direction from the small signs your hearing or sense of smell told you as you couldn't rely on your eyesight. 

But Aramis didn't answer, only shook his head. He drank long from his bottle and then slammed it to the table with a thud. Porthos was well over his head. He couldn't think of anything else to say; he could hardly ask directly what ailed his friend. That conversation would need privacy – and a lot more wine.

Suddenly Aramis locked his gaze with Porthos and said, “ _He_ sought happiness once and we know how that ended.” Aramis nodded towards Athos, who had some kind of sixth sense of when people were talking about him. Now he turned his head and looked straight at Porthos and Aramis. “Let that be a lesson for us all – love is better left alone,” Aramis snorted, but at the next moment he was staring at his empty bottle moodily, his surroundings forgotten. 

Porthos sighed. His evening was ruined, there was no doubt about it. There were three brooding morons in the tavern – the biggest one at his table – who would need a chaperone until the night was over. At least one of them was bound to get into trouble; he was willing to bet on all three. 

“There you are!” Suddenly Maria dropped down into his lap, cradling a bottle in her arms. “I looked everywhere for you! It's not nice to hide.” She sounded sullen, but deigned to kiss his cheek.

“I've been here the whole time,” Porthos chuckled. 

“You were not!” She claimed, pursing her lips. “I looked!”

“Whatever you say, chéri.” 

“ _You_ are not very nice.” But she was already nuzzling his beard, her small hand petting his chest. He took a firmer grip of her waist, drawing her petite frame more firmly against him, making her purr in contentment. 

“I'm a very nice man,” Porthos said, giving her a long kiss. She tasted of wine and smoke.

The table rattled and it took a moment for Porthos to realize that Aramis had gotten up from his seat. He looked determined and desperate at the same time as he moved towards the door. Porthos swore, resigned to leave his comfortable surroundings to follow his friend. But before Porthos had even managed to move, Aramis was swiftly intercepted. Athos appeared before him and halted him by taking a strong hold of his arm. Curious, Porthos watched his friends. Luckily his seat was near them, so although the noise in the tavern was deafening at times, he could just hear what they were saying.

“Aramis.” Athos' voice sounded like an order. 

“I should be with her,” Aramis said beseechingly. “I can't imagine what she is going through. I should go to her –”

“You can't,” Athos said sharply. They looked at each other, Aramis defiant and Athos resolute. Then Athos' demeanor softened. “You know you can't. I am sorry.” With those words Aramis deflated; he seemed to lose all his determination and will. 

“I'm going to my rooms. I have lost my taste for drink and company.” Aramis stepped around his friend, and Athos let him go without protest. 

Porthos lifted Maria quickly from his lap – “Oy!” she gasped – and went to Athos.

“Shouldn't we follow him?” Porthos asked, patting himself down. He had his weapons, his money, his hat – in short, everything he needed.

“I'll follow. You can take care of the boy.” Athos looked meaningfully at the corner, where d'Artagnan was heroically fending against a tavern wench looking to make a closer acquaintance. Without another word Athos exited the tavern, leaving Porthos to stand in place, disgruntled. Should he just take d'Artagnan and deposit him to his rooms and go to bed himself? But then again, the night was still young. He might as well enjoy Maria a little more and get that fight he had been hankering after. D'Artagnan would appreciate a little violence, he was sure. 

Porthos returned to his table, but Maria had already found another lap to sit. Nonplussed, Porthos drew Maria from the amorous attentions of the pimple faced Red Guard, ignoring his indignant shout, and repositioned her into his lap.

“There you are,” he grinned. Delighted, Maria giggled. The pimple faced soldier looked like he was about to do something very foolish, his hands hovering above his sword. Satisfied, Porthos kissed Maria soundly, keeping an eye on the Red Guard. It looked like he was going to get his fight sooner rather than later. Moreover, he was now much closer to solving the mystery of Aramis' dark mood. As he had already guessed, and the discussion between Athos and Aramis had all but confirmed, it was all about a woman. More likely a married woman. The rest, he would undoubtedly uncover in time. What was more important, Athos seemed to know what ailed their friend, and Porthos could trust that he would take care of Aramis until Porthos was in on the secret. 

The Red Guard drew his sword and Porthos laughed. It was shaping up to be an exceptionally good night.


	3. The Mission

 

_I would rather have a plain russet-coated captain that knows what he fights for, and loves what he knows, than that which you call ‘a gentleman’ and is nothing else._  
\- Oliver Cromwell (1599–1658) -

-o-

 

_The Tenth of February, 1631. Paris._

The four Musketeers were standing at attention, each of them knowing it would be bad form to fidget or slump. It was not because they were facing their superior officer – although Captain Treville deserved their respect and attention – but because present at the secret meeting was also Armand Jean du Plessis, better known by his title Cardinal Richelieu. Unlike their Captain, His Grand Eminence most certainly didn’t deserve their respect, although he had their attention alarmingly often. Nevertheless, the Cardinal demanded at least cursory politeness, if for nothing else then because he always seemed to expect the worst from them and the Musketeers liked to prove him wrong at every opportunity. 

D’Artagnan knew that the Cardinal’s unfavorable view of them didn’t result from their less than noble backgrounds – Porthos had been a thief, Aramis was a failed priest, Athos had abandoned his title and lands and he himself had grown up to be a farmer – but because they had the unfortunate habit of foiling the Cardinal’s many plans. Therefore Cardinal Richelieu always looked like he had smelled something unpleasant, at the very least something badly rotten, whenever he had to be in the same room with them. Although to be fair, the antagonism went both ways.

Now the First Minister of France looked especially irritated. D’Artagnan didn’t bother to hide his smirk. Just a half-hour ago Treville had summoned them to the _Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois_ , telling them to be swift and inconspicuous. Inside the gloomy church they had found not only their Captain, but the Cardinal as well. The secrecy and King Louis’ opposing advisers promised an interesting, if probably dangerous, mission.

Despite the circumstances, d’Artagnan couldn’t help but glance around the imposing space. Paris had many grand churches, and they never failed to stir a sense of awe and wonder in him. _Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois_ was not an exception. The daylight filtered through colorful stained-glass windows above the altar, but the light hardly reached the aisle they were standing. The only other light came from a few lit candelabrums which burned beside the side-chapel nearest to them. The pillars and arcades rose towards a high vaulted ceiling, creating dark shapes across the huge space. The statues and adornments were half hidden in shadows, as if they were not meant for human eyes. There seemed to be just one word that could express the church man had built, only a mere thinking of it was considered heresy. The word was magical. 

His thoughts were abruptly broken as Treville started the meeting. “It goes without saying, that everything you hear here is strictly confidential.” D’Artagnan focused wholly on the two men before him. They both looked somber and somehow unexpectedly old. 

Without wasting any time on platitudes, the Cardinal went straight to the point. “We have had some alarming information from our spy in Savoy. The King’s brothers are seeking to overthrow him and to take power for themselves.” D’Artagnan couldn’t help but be alarmed. That didn’t sound good. No wonder that both Treville and the Cardinal were looking solemn and worried. 

“Again?” Athos’ voice was matter-of-fact. He didn’t sound very surprised. 

“Yes,” the Cardinal grimaced. “It seems they cannot learn from their past mistakes. Of course, we have been closely monitoring them and there has been the usual chatter of half-hatched plots, but now we have definite information.”

“It seems that they want to make a secret pact with the Republic of Venice,” Treville said. He looked calm and controlled as usual, but d’Artagnan had come to know him well enough to recognize the tension in his posture. “They already have some supporters, the Duke of Savoy among them.” The news about the Duke of Savoy didn’t seem to surprise anyone. It was a known fact that he hated Cardinal Richelieu and considered King Louis, his brother-in-law, to be too weak to rule.

“Why Venice?” Porthos asked, giving voice to d’Artagnan’s own thoughts. 

“They need political support, money, weapons and manpower. Many of those they can get from Venice. The Republic isn’t as powerful as it has been, but it is still an important ally: it has connections, wealth, goods and ships. Most important of all – weapons and goods can be brought from its harbor to Savoy and then through the border to France fairly easily and without detection.” The Cardinal sounded like an annoyed teacher, educating his pupils on something they should have already known.

“But Venice has long been a good ally to the King of France.” For the first time, Aramis spoke up. D’Artagnan resisted the urge to turn and look at him. Aramis had been in an unhappy mood for many days, unusually quiet and withdrawn. Now he almost sounded like his old self, but d’Artagnan knew it was just a mask he had erected to shield himself against the Cardinal’s shrewd eyes. 

“So they have, but apparently they will not oppose, if someone else than King Louis sits on the throne. No doubt _Gaston of France_ –” The Cardinal all but spit the name, “has promised them everything under the sun for their support. He is already travelling to Venice to seal the deal.”

“We don’t know yet how many in Venice supports the Duke of Orléans,” Captain Treville pointed out, ever the voice of reason. 

“He only needs a few key players,” Cardinal Richelieu argued. “My sources in Venice tell that some new members of the Council of Ten are especially susceptible to his advances.”

“Then what do you need us to do?” Athos asked. Even though they all loathed the Cardinal, they would do everything they could in the service of France and its King.

The Cardinal looked like he had swallowed something putrid. Despite the seriousness of the situation, an imperceptible smile appeared on Captain Treville’s face as he said, “The King has given you an assignment: you are to go to Venice and stop the Duke of Orléans from making any kind of secret treaty with the Venetians. You are to uncover proof of his plot and then take him into custody and bring him back to Paris to face his King.” Even though the task sounded difficult and dangerous, d’Artagnan could not help but be thrilled. He had never been abroad, and Venice sure beat the French countryside. The city was famous for both its beauty and its many vices. It was said to float on emerald waters of a lagoon. And it would be good to leave Paris for a while, to get some distance –

“Just the four of us?” Athos was asking and d’Artagnan struggled to renew his focus on the conversation. He couldn’t think of _her_ now.

Treville nodded, “Yes, it’s a covert mission. Although you have the King’s authorization, no one is to know that you are Musketeers and acting on the King’s behalf.”

“So we are to be _spies_.” Aramis sounded surprisingly sour. D’Artagnan could see him from the corner of his eye; he didn’t seem at all happy with their mission. 

“Believe me, _you_ certainly weren’t my choice,” the Cardinal retorted. “This is hardly the job for soldiers, but the Queen persisted – she thinks the Musketeers are _perfect_ for this delicate mission.”

Aramis stiffened, but didn’t say anything. 

“The Queen knows that they are the most loyal and brave of the King’s Musketeers. They are exactly the men for the job, especially when we don’t know how far the conspiracy has spread,” Treville was quick to defend his men. No one needed to remind the Cardinal why it was that the Queen of France didn’t trust his judgment; after all, it had only been eight months since he had tried to get her killed. It was also why the Cardinal couldn’t oppose the Queen too much. He had to still live in perpetual fear that the Queen would expose his treachery to the King and he would lose not only his position but his head. 

“What kind of evidence is needed?” Porthos asked. They all knew that one didn’t accuse the heir to the throne of France lightly. 

“We know for certain that the Duke of Savoy signed some kind of treaty, and it is highly likely that the Duke of Orléans is demanding that the Venetians sign a similar treaty as well – get those documents, and we get the evidence we need,” Captain Treville assured. 

“But how certain is it that the Duke is carrying the treaty with him? He could have easily left it somewhere for safekeeping.” Was it just d’Artagnan’s imagination, or did Athos sound a little uneasy? 

Cardinal Richelieu’s expression twisted into a strange half-smile. “Gaston is nothing if not predictable. He doesn’t trust anyone with it – after all, it’s his insurance. And I bet the Venetians want tangible proof that Savoy is indeed in the plot, so he has to show the treaty to them. Oh, he definitely has it with him.”

“So how are we going to do it?” D’Artagnan found himself wondering aloud. 

“You are to disguise the fact that you are Musketeers, but otherwise you can use your real names,” Treville answered and looked at Athos almost apologetically. “Especially your name, Athos.” 

In the next moment it became clear what he meant, when the Cardinal explained, “You can make use of your title and be a nobleman, down-on-his-luck, looking for restoring his house and name by investing in Venetian trade.” The Cardinal looked critically at Athos’ well-worn musketeer uniform and disheveled hair. “A very down-on-his-luck nobleman, almost bankrupt.”

Porthos snorted and d’Artagnan struggled not to smile. It was funny, although he doubted Athos saw the humor. After all, the man had given up his life as a _Comte_ for a reason. Athos however had an admirable poker face; his stone-faced expression didn’t change. 

“What about the rest of us?” Porthos asked, sounding eager. He was probably imagining some grand role for himself. 

“One of you is the valet; the other two can be the Comte’s trusted men.”

“Isn’t it a risk to use our real names?” Aramis enquired, his tone icily polite.

“It’s more risky to use false identities that can be easily ascertained to be fake. This way, if someone asks around about Comte de la Fère…” Captain Treville had clearly thought about the plan carefully, which eased d’Artagnan’s mind a little. 

“Besides, no one is going to recognize _your name_ ,” the Cardinal sniffed. 

“And all of you have never met the Duke?” Treville wanted to make sure. The Musketeers all nodded their affirmation. The King’s and more importantly the Cardinal’s displeasure towards the Duke of Orléans had kept him away from Paris for many years. He would not be able to recognize them. 

“And what of the Duke of Vendôme?” Athos asked.

Cardinal Richelieu’s gaze sharpened. “He is still in exile. Our sources say he hasn’t left Holland; he knows he is too closely watched. He will be dealt with.” The Duke of Orléans was protected by his status as the legitimate heir of the King, and would probably only suffer banishment or house arrest for his role in the conspiracy. D’Artagnan wondered if the King’s elder half-brother could count on the same lenient punishment or if his fate would be harsher. They all knew what the punishment for the conspiring brothers would be, if the Cardinal got to decide. Both the Duke of Orléans and the Duke of Vendôme had been vocal in their opposition to Cardinal Richelieu’s power and influence over the King, had already tried to topple him from his position once before – the Cardinal would gladly see them dead.

After that, the meeting was quickly over. The main part of the mission had been outlined; the details were left to the Musketeers themselves. They exited the church in various moods: Athos was lost in thought, no doubt already making detailed plans and backup plans for the mission; Aramis was somber and heavy-hearted as was his usual way lately; only Porthos was almost giddy with excitement. D’Artagnan didn’t know how to feel. The thrill he had felt had begun to slowly turn into dread. They were going to a foreign country in secret, to try to detain the heir to the French throne as discreetly as possible, but first they had to somehow uncover evidence of his betrayal. The plan hinged on numerous factors, all of which could quickly go wrong. 

“Venice!” Porthos exclaimed, not willing to be dragged down by his companions’ subdued demeanors. “Courtesans, exotic things from all over the world, the Carnival. It will be fun!”

Athos snorted, “You know we’ll probably be exposed as spies and killed?”

“As I said, fun!” Porthos wasn’t the least bit deterred. D’Artagnan couldn’t help but smile at his friend. Porthos’ enthusiasm and confidence was infectious. As ever, they would prevail over any obstacles, together. 

He turned to the others and asked, “So, who´ll be the valet?” As if by silent agreement, all three men turned to look at d’Artagnan pointedly. He sighed. “Of course.” 

-o-

Captain Treville left soon after his Musketeers, but the Cardinal stayed in the church. He went in to a small side-chapel and lit a votive candle in front of the wooden statue of Saint Germain. The saint bishop sat imperiously on his perch, eyes almost half-lidded, holding an open book in his hand. The red robes of the saint seemed even redder in the candlelight. Instead of piousness, the statue was the very image of power. 

“Your Eminence.” The harsh voice carried from the darkness, disembodied. Despite himself, Cardinal Richelieu startled. But he knew that voice, and so could collect himself quickly. As he turned from the statue, a dark shape stepped into the side-chapel. The shape came nearer and transformed into a tall man in a black cloak. 

“Have you made all the preparations?” The Cardinal asked, studying the face of the man before him. He marveled yet again how the seemingly normal looking man could seem so off-putting. The man bore no disfigurement, not even a single boil or scar. He was not ugly; the firmness of his mouth and the sharp line of his nose made him fairly good-looking. Perhaps it was the dead stare of his eyes that made the Cardinal uncomfortable and wary. Perhaps he was only projecting what he knew of the man in to his face.

“Yes, I am ready to leave immediately.” The man’s hoarse voice was dispassionate; his tone the very definition of uninterest. 

“Good. You need to leave before the Musketeers are on their way.” Once again, the Cardinal cursed the Queen’s tendency to meddle in things that didn’t concern her. If she had been just trying to punish the Cardinal, to show that she had power – that he could understand. But it seemed that in addition to that she sincerely believed that the Musketeers were the best agents France could send to Venice. And the King couldn’t deny her anything, not so soon after another dead baby. Once again, the Cardinal was left to take matters into his own hands because France’s best interest demanded it. 

“I can avoid them,” the man said confidently. The Cardinal believed him; the man had proved himself time and again to be an excellent agent and assassin. Then again, Milady had been his best, and it still stung him how that had turned out. Overconfidence was a fault as much as insecurity. 

“See that you do,” he snapped. “Your presence must stay secret – it’s essential. Otherwise those treaties are no use to me.” The documents would be great bargaining chips, especially the one that fool Victor Amadeus had signed. Savoy’s impudence and disobedience would soon be at an end. 

“That is all?”

The Cardinal turned to look at Saint Germain. The statue’s gaze seemed to move with the flame of the candle. “Make sure that the Duke of Orléans can’t threaten the King again.” It was not necessary to clarify the order; the man knew what was required of him. 

“Any parameters?”

“It would be fortunate, if it happened in Venice.” Let the Venetian councilmen try to wriggle out of the mess of a foreign dignitary and the heir of the King of France dying on their soil. They would not be able to deny France anything. It would be a nice lesson to those who sought to oppose him. 

“And if the Musketeers get in the way?”

“You can dispose of them. I don’t particularly care how you do it.” The Cardinal locked gazes with his top agent. “Just don’t fail me, Gérard.”

“I won’t.” The words were not a promise, but a flat statement. Failure wasn’t an option. 

-o-

He had to see her. 

Although they were to depart from Paris as soon as possible, Aramis couldn’t leave the city without seeing her, without telling her how sorry he was, how he would do anything to give her any measure of comfort, that he thought of nothing but her, day and night. With some pretext or another, he had been to the Royal Palace as often as it had been plausible and he had been able, but he had always had to leave disappointed. The Queen had been shut in her private chambers, recovering from the ordeal of stillbirth, not receiving any visitors. There had been no chance to meet, to say –

As Aramis hurried back towards the church of _Saint-Germain l'Auxerrois_ and _Palais du Louvre_ that stood next to it, he could only hope that his luck would change. That God would decide he had suffered enough. On account of his life experience, he wasn’t being very optimistic about his chances. 

But he had had a small sliver of luck earlier in getting away from the garrison unhindered. If Athos hadn’t happened to be elsewhere, he would have undoubtedly realized Aramis’ intention and would have tried to stop him, but Porthos and d’Artagnan didn’t know anything about his connection to the Queen. Although they had raised their eyebrows, they hadn’t protested when he had announced that he had an urgent appointment he couldn’t miss. D’Artagnan himself had looked hesitant, clearly debating in his mind if he should see Constance before their departure. Aramis would most certainly have to face Athos’ displeasure upon returning to the garrison, but he couldn’t care less – to hell with him!

Against all odds, Aramis’ luck seemed to hold when he encountered a familiar Musketeer at the palace. In no time at all he had learnt from the man that the Queen was taking a short stroll in the palace gardens, enjoying some fresh air. Without further ado, Aramis turned around and strode towards _Jardin des Tuileries_ , leaving the confused Musketeer to wonder about his unusually abrupt manners. 

The palace gardens were dashing even in the grip of late winter. Aramis hardly noticed the frosty bushes and trees that were glittering in the sunlight like diamonds. There was no pleasure to be had from their cold beauty. The gardens were quite large, but the small flock of richly cloaked forms were easily visible in the distance. The deep blues, greens and reds of their attire were like banners of war against the white of their surroundings.

No one stopped him when he approached the Queen, his determination and the _fleur-de-lis_ on his uniform clearing his path. He knew he was breaking at least a dozen protocols, not to mention all the laws of common courtesy, but he didn’t have time or patience for lengthy court games. And this way, she could not refuse to see him. Aramis knew he was ambushing her, but he had no choice – he had to speak to her. 

The Queen was wrapped in a blue cloak lined with soft grey fur. Only her wan face was exposed to the cold, the hood covering her fair hair. Aramis was struck by the soft graceful features of her face, realizing that he had begun to forget how beautiful she really was. No dream or memory could hold a candle to the reality. 

“Your Majesty,” he bowed deep, taking his hat off. His heart was suddenly hammering in his chest, his tongue leaden. He felt the curious stares of the few ladies-in-waiting and guards that were surrounding them, and wished fervently that they could be alone, like they had been on that night so many months ago. Maybe then she wouldn’t seem to be so far away from him. 

“Your Majesty,” he repeated, surprised by the hoarseness of his voice. “Please forgive my rude interruption of your peaceful walk. I…I am leaving Paris shortly and wanted to offer my…condolences.” He hated the formality, the coldness of the word _condolences_ that made him a mere spectator of her grief. As if it hadn’t been personal for him – as if it hadn’t been his child too. But with others listening, he couldn’t say more than that, and even those words were stretching the limit of what a mere soldier could say to his Queen.

“Thank you, Monsieur Aramis, for your kind words.” Her words didn’t waver, but her eyes were full of sadness. She looked small, covered with the thick cloak from head to toe. He tried to desperately hold her gaze; she had to know he was tremendously sorry, that he would do anything for her. He willed her to send the others away so they could quit with the pretense and say what they really meant. But her eyes skirted to the side, away from him, and she fell silent.

He tried once more, saying, “I hope – I hope you all the happiness –” 

“Monsieur,” the Queen interrupted, and although her voice was soft, it held a core of steel. “I wish you good luck on your journey. I will always think of you with friendship.” 

Aramis knew he was dismissed. There was nothing else to do, so he bowed and then turned away, numb. The rest of the way back to the garrison went by in a blur; he hardly noticed his surroundings. He could think of nothing else but her sad eyes, skirting away from him. 

All of it was eerily familiar: once again, his child was dead and the woman he loved was disappearing from his sight, the quilt and grief too overwhelming. He couldn’t help but wonder if all of it wasn’t his fault – and that she had sent him away from Paris, not because he was needed to stop the plot against the King, but because she couldn’t stand to see him.


	4. En Route

 

_Friendship, of itself a holy tie, is made more sacred by adversity._

\- John Dryden (1631-1700) -

 

-o-

_The Seventeenth of February, 1631. Near the town of Valence, in southeastern France._

The night had already darkened, when they stopped in the small hollow lined by trees. It was not a perfect place for spending the night, but it would offer some cover from the bitter wind that pierced them to the bone. They were a long way from the north of France and its still gnawing winter; the southern France’s days were much closer already to spring. The nights however could still freeze a man, especially when coupled with the merciless wind.

Porthos dismounted with extra care, his joints and muscles stiff. He didn’t want to fall flat on his face on the hard ground, not when the others were already standing on their own legs. Not wanting to waste precious resting time, Porthos deposited his saddlebags and his bedroll on the ground and swiftly took care of his horse. The others were doing the same in silence. No words were needed, for their many travels had made this part of the journey a boring, if necessary routine.

They had ridden hard for a week, needing to reach their destination as soon as possible. For that end, they hadn’t taken much with them; only their usual traveling gear and weapons. They had some provisions, but the rest they would have to purchase as the need arose from the small towns and villages they passed along the way. The only concession to extra baggage was a change of clothes; each of them carried a second attire that, while certainly not fit for a dinner with a king, was still sufficient enough for polite company. Those, and the purse full of livres and ducats, were the only things that separated them from the soldiers they were and the nobleman’s entourage they were pretending to be. The purse was the more significant of the two; money opened a lot of doors and stilled suspicious minds. Only the letter Athos carried inside his boothose was more important, for it contained the King’s signature and his authorization. The letter proclaimed that they had the authority to arrest every French citizen they deemed guilty of crimes against the King – including the King’s brother.

The Musketeers were only half-way through their journey to Venice, but Porthos wished that they were already in the famed city. He could hardly wait to see the place he had heard so much of. It was said that although Venice was rebellious in any given day – regularly getting the Vatican into sputters of indignation and horror – it was particularly wild during the Carnival. As men and women from every class donned their masks, no one knew if they were talking to a servant or a noble, a thief or a merchant. However, his eagerness to arrive in Venice was not solely because he wanted to experience all it had to offer; it was also because the atmosphere in his current company was tense, full of friction. 

Ever since they had left their garrison behind, something had been steadily brewing between Athos and Aramis. It was not hard to guess that it was linked to the mysterious appointment Aramis had vanished into just mere moments before they were to depart. Athos had been livid, when he had come from Treville’s office and Aramis had been nowhere to be found. However, he hadn’t confronted Aramis upon his return, had just told him rather coldly to saddle up as they all had been waiting for him and were ready to go. The two men hadn’t exchanged any but cursory words since then. It was getting ridiculous, not to mention a little alarming. They worked best as a unit; any bickering or ill feeling could jeopardize the mission. 

Porthos studied his companions as they made the camp. They worked efficiently, but it was easy to see that something was amiss. Aramis and Athos didn’t speak to each other, addressing Porthos or d’Artagnan instead. They were giving each other as wide a berth as they could on the small camp site. D’Artagnan had noticed the same; he was making these small furtive glances towards the pair and then towards Porthos. Something would have to be done. Porthos gave the lad an imperceptible nod – he would take care of this.

In spite of his firm intention to address the situation headlong, Porthos found himself waiting for the right moment as they ate their small meal in front of the fire. Athos dived straight into mission talk, and even Porthos knew better than to interrupt him, when he was reviewing once again the critical elements of their mission.

“The Doge is mainly a ceremonial figure – the Council of Ten wields the true power. The Cardinal’s source named two of the members who possibly favor the Duke’s plan, Pietro Longhena and Leonardo Gonzaga. Gonzaga is the older and richer of the two, so he probably is more influential.” Athos had already said all of it before they had even departed from Paris. It was always a clear sign he thought the mission particularly difficult and dangerous, when he started to repeat himself.

“So he is the one to watch,” d’Artagnan surmised, willing to play along. 

“We can’t exclude the other members of the council. We don’t know their views or motivations. Nor do we know if the Cardinal’s source can be trusted.” As he spoke, Aramis kept staring at the flames of their small campfire. Whatever secret he carried, it hadn’t yet dimmed his wits or distracted his focus from the mission too badly. 

“Well, _of course_ we can’t.” Porthos had adopted the healthy attitude of not trusting anything the Cardinal said or did in any circumstance. He had found it greatly increased their chances of success on any given mission. If not telling outright lies, Porthos was certain there were things His Eminence had omitted to tell them. The Cardinal had only with great reluctance revealed the name of his source of information in Venice, stressing that they could not under any circumstances approach the man. The Supreme Tribunal of Venice and its inquisitors were notorious for their many spies and informers abroad and inside Venice. Those who gave information to outside powers didn’t go long without notice. Claudio Cavalli was also a member of the Council of Ten – if the Supreme Tribunal found out he had been supplying the First Minister of France with information, he would meet the end that so many of Venice’s enemies had met: torture, followed by a very public and a very bloody death. It was more than likely that they themselves would suffer a similar fate, if they were ever caught spying on Venetian soil. Even the King’s letter couldn’t save them then. 

As if reading Porthos’ thoughts, Athos confessed, “It’s the inquisitors I’m worried about. There’s no telling what their stand on this is.”

“Won’t they follow the council’s lead?” D’Artagnan wondered. 

“They were established to deal with threats to the state’s security, but they have equal authority with the Council of Ten. That means they can try and convict those accused of treason without any oversight from the council. In theory, they don’t need to seek approval for their verdicts. From what I hear, they are very efficient and quite ready to act at the smallest sign of treason.” 

“So it all hinges on if they think the treaty the Duke is offering is an opportunity or a danger to Venice. Hell, if we are lucky, they will nip the Duke’s plan in the bud and we just have to arrest him – or to make sure he doesn’t lose his royal head,” Porthos said, already doubting they would get that lucky. 

“Whatever their stand, they will not suffer agents of foreign countries operating on their soil,” Athos pointed out sharply, dashing all hopes of a happy co-operation with the Venetians. 

“They seem like a merry bunch. There were three, weren’t there?” To his credit, d’Artagnan didn’t seem overly concerned. The boy was admirably courageous, although sometimes that was more recklessness than bravery. Porthos could relate to him; occasionally rash action was necessary.

“Yes. _Il Rosso_ – or the Red One – is chosen from the Doge’s councilors and two others – _I negri_ – are chosen from the Council of Ten.”

“Then let’s hope we’ll never have to meet them.” Porthos raised his canteen as a toast and drank deep. As always, he felt a small twinge of disappointment as the tepid water hit his throat. He would have to wait for the next tavern for a chance to taste wine, and at the rate they were going, it was probably not until they were in Venice.

“I think that is not very likely.” Athos smiled grimly. 

“Always the optimistic,” Aramis needled. The poisonous tone of his words was in stark contrast to its usual playfulness. Athos ignored him. D’Artagnan shifted, uneasy. Porthos sighed. Something would have to be done – and soon. 

After that, the conversation dried up quickly. They divided the watches, and despite the lad’s objections, the first watch was designated to d’Artagnan. That way the young man could sleep interrupted the rest of the night. As d’Artagnan settled his blanket nearer to the fire and Aramis went to relieve himself into the bushes, Porthos saw his chance. He stepped close to Athos and took hold of the man’s shoulder. 

“Fix this!” Porthos hissed, nodding towards Aramis. “Yell or fight or whatever – I don’t care. Just solve whatever is wrong, before we all die, because you two are too stubborn to talk to each other.”

Athos gave him a look that clearly said, _how is this my fault_? His shoulders tense and lips pursed, he seemed to be on the verge of sharp words. He held them in however, and yielded. “I’ll talk to him,” Athos promised grudgingly. 

Porthos felt a twinge of resentment. Aramis had refused to talk to him despite Porthos’ many overtures, and so Porthos had trusted Athos – who clearly had been confided in – to take care of whatever was agonizing Aramis. Instead Athos had managed to get into a quarrel with Aramis, further escalating their friend’s dark mood.

Without further words Porthos went to his bedroll, determined to get as much sleep as he could before it would be his turn to take the watch. He enfolded his blanket tightly around himself, but still the cold was relentless. The small fire seemed to give only cursory warmth; it did not reach his benumbed fingers and toes. Although still in the same old clothes he was accustomed to wearing, Porthos felt strangely naked without his _fleur-de-lis spaulder_. All that the symbol represented – honor, chivalry and duty – had become important to him, and albeit those things were not tied to a piece of ornamental leather, they still felt alarmingly absent without the symbol. He wondered if the others felt the lack, and if they did, did it bother them as much as it did him.

-o-

The dream was already sliding away when he woke, heart aching and cock stiff. All that remained was the image of dark hair against a white pillow and the feel of warm skin, ridged with scars from a rope, on his tongue. He lay on his bedroll, frustrated and weary, waiting for the arousal to subside. Above him, the night sky was full of stars, and he observed the familiar constellations until his heart and body calmed down. A sidewise glance towards the fire revealed a familiar silhouette. Aramis was on watch. 

For a moment, Athos felt an overwhelming urge to just stay put. But there was no helping it; he had promised Porthos, who was right to be worried. Quite without Athos’ intent, his relations with Aramis had become strained and were well on their way to hostile. It was a distraction they couldn’t afford, not amid perhaps the most challenging mission they had ever faced. Besides, there was no time like the present to get the altercation over with. At least with the other two of their company sleeping, they would be spared an audience. 

His mind made up, Athos rose up quietly. Immediately, the cold tried to seep deeper into his bones, making him shudder. It seemed that the winter had lasted unnaturally long, although it was still just February. Almost gladly he stepped closer to the fire and Aramis, who sat beside the flickering flames. Aramis couldn’t miss the fact that he wasn’t the only one awake anymore, but he didn’t acknowledge his friend in any way. 

“I need to talk to you.”

“Well, if you must,” Aramis muttered. 

“Not here.” Athos left the fire reluctantly behind, walking slowly to the edge of the small hollow, stopping when he reached the trees. He was relieved to hear Aramis behind him; he hadn’t been so certain that the other man would follow. 

For a moment Athos didn’t know how to begin, but then decided to just address the situation headlong. “Whatever happened in Paris – you, we, have to leave it behind and focus on the mission.”

Aramis snorted, “Like you have left your past life behind?”

Irritated, Athos took a deep breath. Starting an empty quarrel would only make matters worse. He had to get through to Aramis, but lately it seemed that his friend didn’t really hear anything he said – or if he heard, he understood the words to mean something they did not. Aramis had interpreted Athos’ attempts to stop him meeting the Queen as wanting to keep them apart, when in reality he had just wanted to protect the couple. Their relationship was not a common relationship; the death of their child was not a common death. If their affair or the baby’s parentage would ever be discovered – Athos couldn’t bear to think what would happen to his friend.

“I know – I know how hard it is to not let something like that consume you, but we have a duty, a mission to protect the King – and the Queen. A duty to serve France the best we can.” Although Aramis had every right to his grief, he could not let it affect their mission. That way laid certain trouble and possible failure. 

“I know that!” His face covered with darkness, only Aramis’ voice revealed his anger. “Don’t worry; I will do my duty, as always.”

“We need your whole attention on this. What is more, we need your sound judgment. Going to see the Queen – that was stupid and reckless.” Athos didn’t pull any punches; he needed to get his point across.

“You have no right to judge me, or to stop me from doing what I think is right.”

“As your friend, I have every right to stop you from getting killed!” Athos hissed, his temper flaring. 

“They can hang me all they want – I don’t care!” 

“What about her? Are you so far gone you don’t care what happens to her if they find out?” Athos took hold of Aramis’ shoulders, wanting to shake some sense into the man. He gripped them tightly instead, trying to convey his worry and fear with his touch. 

“I care,” Aramis spat, tearing Athos’ hands away. “I _love_ her. I wish I didn’t.” The last words were a mere broken whisper. Athos’ temper subsided as swiftly as it had risen. He knew what it was to love helplessly, unhappily, despite oneself. 

“I had to see her – it was torment to think –” Aramis’ anger had left him; he sounded tired and hollow. However stupid his visit to the Queen had been, Athos could understand it. He knew from experience how guilt and grief could transform a man and take all reason and sense with them. 

“Did it help?”

Aramis’ silence was telling. 

“You have to let her go,” Athos sighed, already knowing what an enormous, if not wholly impossible, task that would be. 

“I don’t think you are the best person to give me that advice,” Aramis countered. _Touché_ , Athos thought wryly. 

Silence fell around them; it seemed all had been said. The night was still full with darkness, the blackness piercing and desolate. It was hard to imagine that there would be sufficient light in just a few short hours, when they would have to continue their journey. It felt almost like old times; the lightest sleepers of any company, the two of them had often kept watch together in the dark, conversing of anything under the sky or as often spending the time in companionable silence. Athos felt a sudden longing for those times, sharp and visceral. 

When Aramis spoke next, some of the familiar amicability was back in his voice. “What about you? Can you be Comte de la Fère again?” The end of the sentence, _without drowning in your memories_ , went unsaid but not unheard. 

“I’ll manage,” Athos said curtly. He knew his answer was insufficient, in particular in the light of all he had wrangled out of Aramis, but he couldn’t discuss his own demons. Maybe that made him a hypocrite, but he had reached his limit for a heart-to-heart for one night.

Aramis snorted, but didn’t comment on the obvious brush-off. He started to go back to the campfire to continue his watch, but after just a couple of steps, he hesitated. “I will try my best; that is all I can promise.”

“That is enough,” Athos said, relieved. 

Aramis nodded and turned to go. 

“Aramis – it’ll get easier. Someday.” Athos knew it was a cold comfort, but he had to offer his friend something.

Although he didn’t get any answer, Athos felt better than he had in days. This time, it seemed like Aramis had really heard him. And it went both ways; Athos had finally gotten to know some of his friend’s thoughts. Not everything was resolved between them, nor would any of the lingering causes for friction be easily unraveled. But perhaps they were a few steps closer to understanding each other. Maybe the mission was not doomed after all.


	5. Into the Lion's Den

 

_And, after all, what is a lie? 'Tis but the truth in a masquerade._

\- Alexander Pope (1688 - 1744) -

 

-o-

 _The Twenty-Fifth of February, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

It was a clear and bright morning and they could easily see the Republic’s capital on the horizon even as they set sail. The city’s numerous church towers were clearly visible against the light blue sky, like miniature models on the surface of a map. D’Artagnan’s eyes were clued to the island as the mainland receded behind him. Nervous, he wondered what awaited them there and if they would be at all ready to face it.

They had left the horses in Mestre and had hired a shallop to take them to Venice. From the many boats to hire, theirs had a boatman that could speak passable French. The weather-beaten man quickly launched into his life-story – he had been born in Nice, had been all his life at sea, had almost lost his left leg etc. – until he fell silent, discouraged by their lack of response and the overall silence in the boat. D’Artagnan felt a little twinge of remorse because of it, but it wasn’t his place to address the man. Their mission, and most importantly his role in it, had irrevocably changed as they had reached their destination.

It had only been the four of them on the road, so there had been no need to play any roles. Now surrounded by Venetians and foreigners alike, they would have to play their parts. In Mestre, he had tried to seem a little subservient and had followed the others a few paces behind them, carrying Athos’ traveling bag with his own. Just this small act had proved to be a lot harder than he had imagined; it grated on him to suddenly seem less than his companions after he had finally proven himself to be equal to them. But he would have to keep with the pretense as long as necessary, for their whole mission might depend on it. He was now a servant in the eyes of the world, and nothing more.

On top of everything else, the mission hadn’t exactly begun as he had envisioned. There had been some kind of silent quarrel between Aramis and Athos during most of their journey, and d’Artagnan had been at a loss as to when or why the whole thing had started. He only knew it was something serious; neither man would shift their focus from an important mission lightly. To his relief the atmosphere in their group had gotten better since Porthos’ promised intervention, but it still wasn’t the same easygoing rapport they usually had. Then again, maybe their current mission had something to do with it. All his three companions seemed tense as the shallop ploughed its way through the green-blue waters of the lagoon, getting ever closer to the city.

D’Artagnan himself felt the creeping excitement and suspense, mixed with dread, squeezing his insides. It was hard to stay silent and not to ask the thousand different questions he had on his mind. The others had read or heard of Venice, but d’Artagnan knew next to nothing of the city they were fast approaching. His curiosity was like an itch he felt compelled to scratch, but couldn’t, and it was slowly driving him into distraction. Why hadn’t he asked everything he wanted to know sooner, when they had been still on the road? It had somehow felt impossible to break the stifling atmosphere that had all but swallowed them, and besides – he had been slightly embarrassed to reveal to others how little he actually knew of the place they were going. And now it was far too late.

Luck however, was for once on his side. Porthos happened to break the silence by remarking, “The Island is getting closer.” It was all that their boatman needed to start his prattle again.

“Ah, _signore_ , Venezia – it is many islands, hundreds, not one. But they are small and very together.” None of them responded, but d’Artagnan tried to give an encouraging look to the boatman. The man seemed to get the message, for he happily continued, “Many, many _rio_ , I mean canals between them. And in the middle, the _Canal Grande_. Walking no good in Venezia, you have to hire a gondola. Even inside _sestiere_ , you better have a boat.” Seeing d’Artagnan’s confused look, the boatman elaborated, “Venezia has six _sestieri_ , ugh, you call it an area, a different part of the city.” A small considering silence, and then, “Maybe I can help _signori_ to hire a gondola – I know good people who don’t take too much money. Where are you wanting to go?”

“At the present we don’t know yet. We have to find some lodgings first,” Athos said. His answer was curt and matter-of-fact, but d’Artagnan could detect the familiar amused wryness underneath it.

“I know the best place!” The boatman exclaimed. “ _La Taverna del Leone_ – but every other tavern has a lion in the name –” The man shrugged as if to say, _what can you do_? and continued, “so you must ask for Signora Modena’s tavern. Everyone knows it. Many noblemen stay there; it’s very good – and fair price. And very close to the docks in _Cannaregio_.” Then as if again remembering that his passengers knew nothing of the place he was ferrying them, he explained, “It is the _sestiere_ we are going. Signora Modena’s inn is the best place there – the best.”

D’Artagnan wondered how much the man was being paid for recommending the tavern in question to new travelers. He hoped it was sufficiently, for the man did his job to the letter.

“We’ll take that into consideration,” Athos promised, and although it was not a _yes_ , the boatman seemed to take it as such, for he grinned wildly, exposing a row of rotten teeth.

The city had come closer and closer as they had been talking, and now they were navigating towards the docks amongst the many other vessels. The lagoon was busy as a beehive; ships and boats of all kinds crisscrossed from the mainland to Venice and to other neighboring islands. Many were ferrying people, but many more were carrying goods and merchandise.

Despite the traffic, the docking went surprisingly swiftly and smoothly, and d’Artagnan found himself standing on the soil – or more accurately, the stone-paved surface – of Venice for the first time. He could only stand and stare at the place in wonder. The docks seemed like any other docks in an ordinary town, until one looked further and saw the small canals that led from it to inland like lanes. The canals were full of small boats, the majority of them curious looking rowing boats that were steered by only one standing man with an oar. That had to be the much talked about gondola.

“Remember Signora Modena’s tavern!” The boatman yelled behind them as they parted from his company, having first paid him generously. “And you ask for Pietro at the Cannaregio docks if you want to go to Mestre or to Murano – I’ll take you anywhere with good price!”

Not knowing any other place to stay, they decided to try the recommended tavern. True to the boatman’s word, Signora Modena’s inn was very close to the docks. A few short alleys and one set of directions later they were standing in front of a narrow, three-story building that faced a busy canal. The tiled house had the obvious air of a tavern; loud voices carried from inside out to the walkway and people were going and coming through the front door that had a scuffed sign, depicting a yellow lion, hanging above it.

Despite the decaying façade, the large room they stepped into was surprisingly neat and cozy. The room was half-full of customers drinking, eating and chatting. They didn’t seem to take any notice of the four foreign men as they approached the long wooden counter lining one of the walls. A harried looking woman was standing behind it, busily wiping a dozen glasses with a rag. When she noticed them, the middle-aged woman brightened and addressed them with rapid words that d’Artagnan assumed were Venetian.

As no one in their company spoke Venetian or any Italian, there ensued a moment where they all tried to find a common language; in the end they settled for a mix of Latin and hand gestures. However, as only Athos and Aramis knew enough Latin to converse with it, Porthos and d’Artagnan were left to guess what they were speaking about.

A short exchange later the woman was shaking her head, gesturing wildly with her expressive hands. Aramis explained, “She says that she only has one free room; the city is full of visitors because the Carnival is drawing to its close.” The woman continued to gesticulate, speaking all the while vehemently. “She says no one else is likely to have any free rooms either,” Aramis snorted quietly, clearly doubting her claim.

Athos was nodding and the woman looked pleased, so d’Artagnan guessed that they were going to settle for the one free room available. It did not make any difference to him; he had slept in far worse places. Sharing a room with three other men would hardly be a worse tribulation than sleeping outside in a freezing rain or in a dank prison cell. He quite looked forward to settling both his own and Athos’ bags in the room and maybe getting something to eat. 

The transaction was clearly coming to its end; Athos gave some ducats to the innkeeper and introduced himself and his entourage to her. But as soon as he had said his name the woman lit up and gesticulated animatedly. Her next words even d’Artagnan understood. He almost would have thought he had imagined them were it not the manner in which the others reacted: Athos tensed and his expression turned stony; Aramis whitened alarmingly; Porthos was squeezing his hands into fists, muttering swears under his breath. All of it did not go unnoticed, for the woman was eyeing them speculatively. 

Athos said something, sounding nonchalant. The woman smiled and then, chatting all the while, led them up a narrow set of stairs to the third floor. She opened a crooked door at the end of a short corridor, revealing a small room that held two beds and little else. Athos thanked her and she quickly vanished back downstairs, leaving the four of them standing in the middle of their new lodgings. Athos closed the door firmly.

“Did I just hear what I think I heard?” D’Artagnan asked, incredulous.

Athos’ expression was grim, his lips a terrible thin line of discontent. “She inquired if I was related to the lovely Comtesse de la Fère, who is living here in the city.”

“Great! We have just arrived and everything is already going to hell in a hand basket!” Aramis flopped down on one of the beds, agitated. 

“I can’t believe _she_ is here. _What_ is she doing here?” Porthos complained, throwing his bag to the floor and taking a seat on the remaining empty bed. Suddenly weary, d’Artagnan followed suit leaving Athos the only one standing. 

“Signora Modena said that the _Contessa_ is the quest of Giovanni Monteverdi and his wife. I gathered he is a rich merchant of some sort,” Athos explained, sounding as tired as d’Artagnan felt.

Aramis grinned mirthlessly. “Who thinks she is here just on holiday?” His words were met by a deep silence. “Exactly. Whatever she is here for, I doubt she is up to any good.”

“What do we do now?” D’Artagnan wondered. Milady’s presence changed things; she was too dangerous for them to just ignore her and hope for the best.

Porthos and Aramis kept quiet. They were all looking at Athos, who had a far-away look on his face. He was clearly thinking hard; all his plans and backup plans and backup plans of the backup plans were being revised and rewritten. Finally he met their gazes. “This may work to our advantage yet.”

“How?” That one word from Porthos contained a wealth of disbelief. 

“A Comte looking for opportunities to invest in Venetian trade? That might be believed, but coming here without making any connections towards Venetian merchants and noblemen first? If we had had the time, we could have made our cover story more plausible. But now, it sounds just what it is, a cover story.” Athos contemplated, not sounding particularly alarmed. “And that might be our best cover story.”

“I don’t follow.” Porthos confessed. D’Artagnan silently agreed; he had no idea what Athos was hinting at. Aramis was quicker to grasp their friend’s plan. “A nobleman comes to Venice in search of his disobedient wife, but cannot exactly advertise that. So he says to all –”

“That he is searching for trade possibilities.” Athos nodded. “People see right through that as they already know that a Comtesse de la Fère is living here. But that is just the cover story of a cover story.”

“Ingenious,” Porthos said approvingly. 

D’Artagnan wasn’t yet wholly on board the new plan. “And how do we get her to play along?” The biggest hurdle would be in getting Milady on their side. He knew that would be impossible, as the woman was only ever on one side: her own.

Aramis seemed to have some of d’Artagnan’s misgivings. “We cannot trust her,” he said emphatically. “Let’s not forget that the woman tried to kill us and Constance not so long ago, not to mention, she arranged the Queen to be assassinated.”

“If she doesn’t play along, then she exposes herself along with us. She has to,” Athos reasoned.

“But we don’t know her business here. What if she is working for the Duke of Orléans?”

“We have to take the risk. I have already used my name and she is using hers – if we do not acknowledge each other it would seem weird at best and suspicious at worst. And this way, we can also keep an eye on her. If she is working with the Duke, the best way to uncover that is to be close to her.” Athos had all the answers. His reasons made sense, but still, d’Artagnan felt uneasy. 

“I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all,” Porthos said, again voicing d’Artagnan’s thoughts. But they all knew they truly had no other choice, not if they didn’t want to expose themselves to suspicion and further scrutiny. It was a solid course of action, as good a plan as they could come up with in the circumstances. And yet, how come it felt they were headed for disaster? 

“Are we all agreed?” Athos asked and got three nods in response. He looked resolved and resigned at the same time. “Alright, let’s go meet my wife.”

-o-

Francesca Modena had hardly finished wiping the glasses, when one of the four Frenchmen thumped back downstairs. It was not the _Conte_ , but the other one that could speak tolerable Latin, the handsome one. He requested some water for washing to be brought to their room and inquired if she could arrange luncheon for them, all the while smiling charmingly. She couldn’t help but smile back and promise to have the water delivered soon. And what would the signori want to eat? Would they want to eat downstairs or in their room? Was there anything else, anything at all, they needed? She had seen too many charmers to be taken in; it was only good business to flirt back a little.

The man grinned wider, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. Whatever food she had would be fine; they would eat in the room. After thanking her profusely, the man went back upstairs, leaving Francesca busy ordering the maid to fill some buckets with water from the canal and telling the cook to heat the remains of the morning soup. The charmer hadn’t specified the food they wanted, so Francesca didn’t think twice of sending them some leftovers; everything that could, would be eaten by either her staff or her customers. Unlike the rich in the city, she couldn’t afford to throw perfectly good food in the canals. 

The church bells hadn’t yet rang their noon bells, when Francesca next saw the Frenchmen. They had left their bags in the room, and although they were still wearing the same clothes they had arrived in, they looked significantly cleaner without the dust and dirt of travel. They tipped their hats to her as they went out the front door, but no words were exchanged. Francesca continued her work, the tavern getting busier by the minute as the sailors and gondoliers took a short break for a midday meal.

After most of the midday rush had ended and the tavern was once again quiet, only the usual regular customers nodding into their drinks, Francesca left the counter. She brought a meal of sardines and squid to the room’s furthest corner table. After setting one plate, two glasses and a wine bottle on the table, she sat down and waited. She didn’t have to wait long; as always, he came like clockwork.

Leon took the chair opposite her and nodded his greetings. Without a word, the small man dug into his meal with relish. Long, thin fingers shoved the pieces of fish into a mouth that had difficulties chewing it all down; some of the squid pieces flopped back down to the plate and to the tabletop. Francesca watched dispassionately, having gotten accustomed to appalling table manners long ago. After Leon had gobbled up the food, he opened the wine bottle, filling both glasses to the brim.

Francesca tasted the wine, appraising it carefully. Leon instead gulped down his drink, quickly filling up his glass again. “Any news?” He finally inquired casually.

“Four Frenchmen took my last room; they arrived this morning.”

Leon’s beady eyes narrowed with interest. “They said their names?”

“The servant is d’Artagnan; the other two go by the names of Aramis and Porthos.” She pronounced the foreign names carefully, wanting to get them right, saving the best for last. “The fourth one is a _Conte_ – Conte de la Fère.”

“Any relation to the Contessa?” Leon didn’t bother to hide his eagerness from her. His blotchy face was animated and he was avidly watching her, ready to absorb any information she could tell.

“I asked that,” Francesca reported. “He said ‘after a fashion’. They all seemed a little…rattled.” She proceeded to describe the scene in detail, knowing that Leon would want to know all she could recall, however small and insignificant.

After the short tale, Leon looked thoughtful. “Where are they now?”

“They left just before the noon bells, after washing up and eating luncheon; they didn’t say where they were going.”

“What room did you give them?” He eyed the stairs leading up to the rooms above.

“The small one on the third floor.”

Leon gave her a smirk and left the table, heading for the stairs. Francesca sighed and started to clear the dishes. She knew that in addition to cleaning the mess he had left behind, Leon assumed she would warn him if the Frenchmen came back before he had managed to search their room. Pausing in her duties, Francesca sat back down and poured herself another glass of wine. Sometimes the whole spying business seemed to be more trouble than it was worth. Nonetheless, she kept a careful eye on the front door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone is interested, here is a link to a 17th century map of Venice: http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/4/46/Venezia_c.1650.jpg


	6. Reunion

_Hanging and wiving goes by destiny._

\- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), _The Merchant of Venice_ \- 

 

-o-

_The Twenty-Fifth of February, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The gondolier only needed to know that they wanted to go to Signore Monteverdi’s residence; other directions were unnecessary, which was a blessing as they didn’t know where his house was located. They soon learned that Giovanni Monteverdi was not unknown to Venetians: Ca’ Monteverdi was one of the _palazzi_ lining the Grand Canal. Venice’s richest and most important citizens had built their grand houses – or more accurately, palaces – as a symbol of their wealth and status. The magnificent buildings with their decorated facades, high columns and arches, and many ornate windows made the wide canal hold its own against the most splendid streets of any city.

The splendor of his surroundings however, was lost on Athos. D’Artagnan and Porthos were looking at the palaces and churches in wonder, watching the bustling traffic in the Grand Canal and its numerous narrower side canals with interest. Even Aramis showed signs of curiosity by observing the boats and gondolas closest to them. The vessels held a comprehensive sample of the city’s inhabitants: workers, sailors, servants, merchants, nobles and more, most of them with a mask of some kind on their faces. But Athos could only think about their destination and what they would encounter there.

_She_ was here, in this same city as him, and he couldn’t believe it was a coincidence. It had been five months (he refused to recall the exact number of days) since she had left Paris, and he had slowly begun to convince himself that he would never see her again. But here she was – and he was going to meet her in just a few short moments. The gondola glided ahead far too swiftly; it passed under the great stone bridge, _Ponte di Rialto_ , and entered the districts of San Paolo, on their right side, and San Marco, on the left side of the bank. Just before a bend in the canal, the gondolier steered the vessel towards the right bank. It seemed that all too soon, they had reached their destination.

Athos braced himself, pushing the swirling, volatile emotions deep behind the calm focus of duty. As the gondola reached the wooden pier in front of a middle-sized _palazzo_ with a beautiful, if somewhat weather-beaten marble façade, he reminded himself once more why they were there. They – _he_ – had a mission and everything he did from then on would have to be in aid of accomplishing it. He could not be distracted by anything, however painful or enticing. 

As they stepped on to the low pier, they came face to face with the palace’s main door, which in usual Venetian manner faced the canal. Before Athos could instruct the gondolier to wait for them, the man had already snatched the offered money from Porthos’ hand and was hurriedly steering his gondola back among the heavy canal traffic. That was a little unfortunate – the _palazzo_ was surrounded by canals on all three sides they could see; if they got less than welcome reception, they would have to swim to get to the next piece of land, or at least commandeer one of Monteverdi’s gondolas that were tied to the pier.

Not one to delay the inevitable, Athos took hold of the lion-head shaped knocker. The bangs had barely stopped reverberating, when the door was pulled open. A stone-faced valet was standing before them, looking at the four Musketeers with a critical eye. It seemed he was not impressed with what he saw. Athos adopted his most haughty and commanding tone and proceeded to explain in Latin who they were and what they were seeking in shortest terms possible. The valet wrinkled his nose and then with perfect French asked the gentlemen to come inside. 

The main door opened into a large entrance hall, in which they were instructed to wait. An unusually wide hallway led from the hall to the rest of the house and seemed to run through the whole building. With no hurry, the valet walked half-way down the hallway and then turned aside, vanishing from their view. They were left standing in the middle of the entrance hall in silence. There were decorative wooden benches lining the walls, but none of them made any move to sit. Athos examined what little he could see of the house, seeing a well-used but well-cared for décor. There was no doubt that the family was wealthy, but it seemed they were prudent enough not to be excessive in their tastes. The black and white checkered tile floor was exquisite but not ostentatious.

Echoing footsteps announced the arrival of a portly, middle-aged man, before he even emerged from the hallway. As he came inside the entrance hall, it became clear from his attire and manner that he had to be the owner of the house, Signore Monteverdi himself.

Any fears about unwelcome reception were immediately banished, when the man said enthusiastically, “Ah, this is most interesting! I almost didn’t believe Luca, when he said a French _Comte_ was waiting in my hall!” Giovanni Monteverdi spoke accented, but quite good French.

Athos moved quickly closer to the merchant, giving him a slight bow. “My humble apologies for coming uninvited, but the circumstances are somewhat…unusual.” He bet that arousing the man’s curiosity would get them further than any stilted explanations.

“No need for any apologies! You are very welcome, Ca’ Monteverdi never turns any visitors away. But I must admit I am quite intrigued,” Signore Monteverdi said good-humoredly, looking at their worn traveling attires with interest.

“Thank you, we are in your debt.” Athos inclined his head in acknowledgement of their host’s generosity. “We have just arrived in Venice, having traveled from France with haste. I decided rather abruptly to come here to see what trade possibilities Venice could offer and of course to enjoy the Carnival – and to be honest, I wanted to also see my wife.” He gave a self-deprecating smile for good measure.

“Your wife?” It was a question, but Athos could tell the man already knew who he meant. 

“Comtesse de la Fére. I understand that she is your guest.” 

“Yes, I have the honor of having her as a guest in my humble house. But…oh, this is a little embarrassing – there must have been some misunderstanding –” Giovanni Monteverdi’s eyes were glinting with mischief although the rest of his expression remained polite. “I thought that she was a _widow_.”

An awkward silence ensued. Before Athos could concoct anything plausible, Porthos snorted, “Women, eh? A little spat and we are dead to them!”

“That is very true!” Signore Monteverdi burst into a deep laugh. The rest of them nodded their heads and tried to join in his mirth. “Sometimes my wife – if she could run me out of my own house, she would!” He looked at them appraisingly and then grinned impishly. “The Comtesse is having refreshments with Signora Monteverdi: come, let’s go surprise them.”

They followed their host to the hallway and then up a grand staircase. Athos changed glances with his companions and noted wryly that although it was hardly evident to strangers, the Musketeers were readying themselves for battle. They reached a landing, but continued to climb to the next floor, the principal floor or _piano nobile_ as the Venetians called it. This floor was more grandiose; the ceiling was higher than in the previous floors and the walls of the hallway were decorated with colorful tapestries. The end of the hallway opened into a magnificent ballroom with tall windows, which let in enough light to illuminate most of the corridor.

Almost directly opposite the staircase was an open doorway; Giovanni Monteverdi gestured gleefully towards it. “Come! I’m sure there are still enough refreshments for everyone.” He went inside a large drawing room, and the Musketeers followed, bracing themselves for whatever would happen next. 

Athos took in the room and its occupants with the trained eye of a soldier: the room had two exits opposite each other in addition to the one they had just come through; it had windows that faced a narrow side canal and the neighboring building across it; there were two women, one sitting on a settee, the other in an oak chair. One of the women was instantly recognizable. Lately she had been known as Milady de Winter, but Athos first knew of her as Anne de Breuil, before he made her Comtesse de la Fére.

“Look what I found in our hall!” Signore Monteverdi chuckled good-naturedly, beckoning to the men behind him. Athos ignored Signora Monteverdi, who rose from her chair to meet them, and kept his eyes on Anne, watching for any signs of astonishment, surprise or apprehension. Her posture tensed, her lovely eyes widened slightly and her mouth tightened for mere seconds; then she seemed to relax and a pleasant smile returned to her face. It was truly remarkable how good an actress she was.

Athos turned his focus on Signora Monteverdi, bowing to the attractive, black haired woman. “ _Signora_ , please excuse the intrusion. I wanted to surprise my wife. Comte de la Fére, at your service.” 

“Oh, this is a surprise indeed,” Signora Monteverdi remarked and turned to her guest. “Didn’t you say that you were a widow?”

“I might have exaggerated a little,” Anne confessed with a wry smile, rising nimbly to her feet. Her dark hair was tied elaborately at the back of her head, a generous amount of soft curls left falling each side of her face. She was dressed in a lilac gown with a low rounded neckline trimmed with fine lace, the silk hugging her every curve. Like always, her beauty struck him anew, made his heart skip a beat. “Darling,” her voice was honeyed, but it could have cut glass, “this _is_ a surprise.” 

“What a lark!” Giovanni Monteverdi enthused as he gestured for them to sit. “You must tell us all about it!”

“Perhaps the Comte and the Comtesse would first like to exchange news in private,” their hostess interfered tactfully. She pointed at one of the open doors. “The library is at your disposal.” 

“Thank you, I think that would be best.” Athos gave her a grateful smile and then looked at Anne expectantly. Without a word, she strode through the door, Athos at her heels. He left the others with the Monteverdi couple, assuming they could stand up to any interrogation they would undoubtedly have to face. 

The library’s door to the hallway was already closed, and Athos shut the door to the drawing room carefully behind him. The wooden paneled room with its dark bookcases was dim, the only light coming from two windows. In the middle of the floor was a round oak table, where stood a globe depicting the earth. Anne went to stand by it, her back to Athos. 

For a moment, all was quiet. Then, touching the globe, she said, “The world is so big – and yet, here we are again.” 

He knew what she meant. Despite all the conflict, pain and betrayal between them, despite the fact that they had let each other go, somehow they found themselves once again in the same room. Fate had a cruel sense of humor. 

“What are you doing here?” Athos asked, not very kindly.

Anne turned around and smiled bitterly. “You ordered me to leave Paris – I left. You didn’t say where I can and can’t go. I recall your exact words were _I don’t care_. So I came to Venice. I wanted to see the Carnival, the lagoon. There isn’t anything like it in the world.”

“What are you _doing_ here?” Despite his frustration, Athos kept his voice quiet. There was no telling how thin the walls were and who was trying to listen to them.

“Apparently, I have left my dull husband and have come to live dangerously in the notoriously free Venice. That is your plan, is it not? Or is it more plausible if I drop a few hints of how I have fled from your brutality?” She gestured to her slender neck, where the scars of the botched hanging were covered by a wide silk ribbon. _Token of your love_ , she had once called them. “I take it I’ll now have to do as you say or you’ll claim I am a fraud?” Her words proved the sharpness of her intellect, although Athos didn’t know how much of it was basic deduction and how much she could guess because she was in on the plot with the Duke.

“As you have been masquerading as Comtesse de la Fére, I don’t see you have any grounds to complain.”

“I am still your wife – at least in name, if nothing else,” Anne pointed out sharply. “I was simply using my own name. And besides, you weren’t making any use of it.”

Although it stung, he could see her point. She couldn’t have foreseen that he would ever use his title again; if asked a month ago, he himself would have vehemently denied such a possibility. “Well, I am making use of it now.” 

“At the behest of the King, no doubt. I can’t imagine that the inquisitors would be pleased to know that the Musketeers are on their soil in secret.” Anne was looking at him assessing, clearly seeking a better position for herself. 

Athos refused to let her try to blackmail or threaten him and their mission. He had the upper hand. “As pleased as they would be to find out that an agent of Cardinal Richelieu is in the city.”

“ _Former_ agent.”

“I doubt they care about the difference.”

They locked eyes, both of them trying to determine how far the other was willing to go. Athos steeled his resolve. He would expose her to the Venetians, if she left him no choice. It seemed Anne believed him, for finally she sighed, “It seems we are at an impasse. Very well, I’ll play along – for now. So, what’s the story?”

“You guessed it already. We had some…marital problems. You left while I was taking care of some business in Paris – I sought you out. Does this fit in with the tale you have been telling?”

“Well enough. I met the Monteverdis a month ago; before that I toured Bavaria. I said I was a widow, but didn’t divulge any other details.” Athos had hoped she would reveal more of what she had been doing after her departure from Paris, but she was too cunning to give him much information. 

“D’Artagnan plays my valet and Porthos and Aramis are former soldiers, now working for me. They go by their real names. I’ll imply that our parting was less than amiable, but I will tell all who’ll listen how you had my blessing for your tour of Europe, and that in addition of coming to see you I have also come to seek out trade possibilities.”

“A cover story of a cover story?” She sounded slightly impressed. “I knew you could be devious if you wanted.” A short silence, and then she continued impassively, “It’s better to stick to as close to the truth as possible. So we have been married nearly seven years, we have no children, in the beginning we were very much in love.”

“Yes,” he agreed.

“You are just a regular Comte and I am your simple wife.”

“I doubt that you could be simple even if you tried.” The words were meant to be a scoff, but they came out almost fond. It earned a small smile from her. He hastened to add, “Whatever your purpose here is – stay out of our way.”

“Don’t worry – I want nothing to do with any of you.” Anne strode past him. He had little time to prepare himself; she finished their exchange by quickly opening the door to the drawing room. The conversation between his friends and the Monteverdis was immediately halted and all their attention turned to the married couple coming out of the library.

Porthos and Aramis were sitting on the settee, wineglasses in their hands. Although they seemed relaxed, Athos knew them well enough to see the minimal signs of tension on their postures. D’Artagnan had adopted his new role and was standing against one of the walls, trying to seem inconspicuous, but he held an impatient expression on his face that no good valet would ever dare to show. 

“All settled?” Giovanni Monteverdi asked eagerly. He eyed them from head to toe, looking like he was bursting with curiosity. It seemed he was searching for signs that they had been either fighting violently or embracing passionately. 

“Everything is fine.” Athos smiled – no doubt it looked horribly forced. Anne’s expression remained stony. They were both completely unconvincing as a happy couple, which suited the narrative he had created perfectly. As Anne had pointed out earlier, the best lies were based on truth. 

“Great!” Their host exclaimed insincerely. “I heard that you are staying in a deplorable room in some cheap tavern. That simply won’t do; you have to stay here.”

“That is very generous, but we couldn’t –” 

“Think nothing of it! We have enough room,” Signore Monteverdi interrupted Athos, and then continued slyly, “And it would be cruel to separate a husband and a wife, who have just had a reunion after such a long separation. I couldn’t be parted from my Elena weeks, let alone months.”

The over-polite expressions with hints of telltale sheepishness on Porthos’ and Aramis’ faces told Athos that the matter of their lodgings had already been discussed at great length and that they had already been badgered into staying at Ca’ Monteverdi. Although all of his heart fought against accepting the invitation, he knew it would be the sensible thing to do. 

“Then we’ll gladly accept.” 

“Splendid! Isn’t it _Tesoro_?” Giovanni Monteverdi turned to his wife, who looked amused and cautious at the same time. 

“Yes, very. I look forward to getting to know my friend’s husband – whom I had no idea existed.”

“Elena –” Anne begun hesitantly, but then fell silent.

“You’ll tell me all about it later, I’m sure.” Signora Monteverdi smiled gently at Anne, but there was no mistaking the steel in her voice. 

“I wouldn’t mind hearing it either,” Giovanni Monteverdi chuckled. Seeing his wife’s admonishing glance, he quickly changed the subject. “I’ll be happy to show you the best Venice has to offer. And you have arrived just at the right time – the best Carnival celebrations and balls are still to come.” He poured red wine from a beautiful carafe to a glass, which he handed to Athos with a sharp and assessing gaze. “We can also take a look at some profitable trade possibilities – after all, you’ll be living under the roof of a very successful merchant, if I say so myself.” 

It became crystal clear that the Comte de la Fére would not leave Venice without investing money on Giovanni Monteverdi’s business. It seemed that in addition of a mischievous and curious nature, the man was also a shrewd businessman. Athos could respect that. He inclined his head as a sign of assent and watched as the Signore could hardly contain himself from rubbing his hands together in glee. 

“Great! We dine at home tonight – dinner is at six o’clock. Your valet can bring your belongings, and I’ll tell Luca to get your rooms ready immediately. Unfortunately, the room we have for _signori_ Aramis and Porthos is at the servants’ floor, but I promise it is bigger and better than the one in the tavern. Your valet can room with one of my male servants, and of course there is more than enough room in the guest bedroom for the Comte.” Giovanni Monteverdi grinned jovially.

Athos barely prevented himself from spluttering into his wine. How could he have not foreseen this? Surely, this would be a fate worse than death: he would have to share a bedroom with his estranged, dangerous, homicidal wife. He downed the remaining wine in his glass with one gulp. He would need more wine to survive this reunion – a lot more.


	7. Suspicions and Doubts

_La raison et l'amour sont ennemis jurés. (Reason and love are sworn enemies.)_

\- Pierre Corneille (1606-1684), _La Veuve, ou Le traître trahi (The Widow, or The Betrayer Betrayed)_ -

 

-o-

_The Twenty-Fifth of February, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

Signore Monteverdi was happy to lend one of his gondolas with an experienced boatman to take Aramis and d’Artagnan back to Signora Modena’s tavern. In fact, the merchant insisted that during their stay in his home city, his visitors were free to use his gondolas any time they wished. For a foreigner, Venice could be a confusing maze; although not very big, the city had hundreds of canals and bridges, lanes and alleys, many of them leading to dead ends. Getting lost was a rule rather than an exception, at least for those that had not lived in the city their whole lives.

Aramis was in a foul mood from their hard journey and everything that had happened since their arrival to the city, so he was glad to get to the tavern and back as quickly as possible. He sat in the richly decorated cabin of the gondola, not wishing to see his surroundings, but more importantly, not wanting anyone to see him. It was a pleasant way to travel, but he wondered how they would manage to conduct their investigation in secret, if the Monteverdi’s boatmen ferried them everywhere. Poor d’Artagnan had to travel outside the wooden cabin, although there was room for him inside, for it was no place for a servant. But judging from the wide-eyed stare that had been on his face since their arrival, perhaps he was still enjoying the sights and sounds of the foreign city. Aramis however, was tired of Venice already. His thoughts were far away, in Paris.

Was the Queen still cloistered in the palace or had she resumed her normal duties? How was she feeling? Was she thinking of him at all? Was everything between them irrevocably over, forever? 

Perhaps it would be best, if it was over. If he could get her out of his mind and heart, maybe then he could concentrate fully on his duty – and that was all there would ever be between them, _duty_. Then he wouldn’t be so unhappy, so lost, so helpless; all the things he detested, that made him act and sound and _be_ so unlike himself. No wonder Porthos hovered around him like a mother hen, a permanently worried expression on his face. It would be truly best, if their affair or connection or whatever it was, was over. It wasn’t as if the Queen needed him; she had made that very clear. And maybe then Athos would finally be satisfied and cease to give him those irritatingly disapproving glances.

The gondola thumped against a pier, interrupting Aramis’ desolate thoughts. They had arrived in front of the tavern they had left just a few hours ago. It was time to focus on the mission, to be the Musketeer in the service of his King, Queen and country. Aramis exited the cabin and rose to his full height, body and mind alert. But still, he felt horribly like an impostor, someone who was doing their utmost to pretend to be a soldier, but was everything but.

Signora Modena was again behind the counter, serving drinks. She watched with avid eyes as Aramis and d’Artagnan headed straight for the stairs. Soon they were safe from curious looks inside their small room, which truly was as abysmal as Giovanni Monteverdi had imagined. Although Aramis wanted to be as far away from Milady as possible, he could admit that they would be much more comfortable in Ca’ Monteverdi’s luxurious rooms. Even though his and Porthos’ room was in the attic amongst the servants’ quarters, it was nicer than anything he had ever had for himself in Paris. 

D’Artagnan moved to gather their few belongings, which were still lying where they had left them. The room seemed undisturbed, but still – 

“Wait!”

D’Artagnan stopped and turned towards Aramis, a questioning look on his face. Aramis shook his head, frustrated. “Does everything seem to be in its right place?” He asked, already knowing the answer. Everything was _exactly_ as they had left it, but Aramis had a feeling that someone had been in the room while they had been gone. It wasn’t anything tangible, like a wet footprint left behind or belongings in a wrong place, but he had learned to trust his instincts long ago. Sometimes the mind could see things that other senses could not detect. 

“All seems to be like we left it,” d’Artagnan confirmed. “You think someone has been here?”

“Maybe.” Aramis took hold of his bag and quickly made sure everything was still there. Whoever had been in the room hadn’t taken anything – and why would he? He had been no ordinary thief and the Musketeers had certainly left nothing important or revealing for him to find. But it was not a good sign, that someone was already suspicious enough of them to search their room. All of Venice seemed to be full of snakes. Speaking of which –

“Milady is somehow involved with the Duke of Orléans.” Aramis was certain of that; it was too much of a coincidence for her to be there now. “We have to keep a very close eye on her. There’s no telling what she is plotting – we have to watch our backs.”

“Yeah, I know,” d’Artagnan agreed. Having been the target of Milady’s lies and seduction before, he knew perhaps better than anyone – besides Athos – just what she was capable of. “At least she cannot plot in secret while Athos is watching her every move.”

“ _Everyone_ needs to watch her,” Aramis countered emphatically. “She has proven to be very persuasive and seductive. She’ll take advantage of any weakness, anything she can use to her own purpose. I fear she knows exactly how to get her claws into Athos.”

D’Artagnan pursed his mouth; like always, the lad was unwilling to believe that the man he looked up to had serious weaknesses. “Athos would be the first one to admit that he has a complicated history with her, but he has proven that he’ll put the mission and what is right above it.”

“He let her go.”

“You didn’t give any protest at the time,” d’Artagnan reminded him. 

“No, I did not,” Aramis sighed. It had been the right thing to do; Aramis was quite certain that executing his former wife would have destroyed his friend for good. And the Queen had been alive and well; it hadn’t mattered that the one who had sought her death had gotten mercy – not until his child and love had gotten none. 

“I trust Athos,” d’Artagnan said firmly, “don’t you?” His eyes were sincere, his believe steadfast. Suddenly Aramis felt the worst kind of friend. 

“Of course I do. But I have lived long enough to know that sometimes love – or guilt, or any other kind of strong emotion – can completely banish any reason. Athos…the last time he was this close to her, he was her adoring husband. Don’t underestimate the power of happy memories.” 

“She killed his brother.” D’Artagnan had already gathered his and Athos’ things and was standing in the middle of the room, facing Aramis with a steady look. “Do you think he can ever forget that?”

Aramis shook his head, but didn’t answer; he didn’t know how to. He didn’t believe that Athos would ever forget Thomas’ death, but things weren’t as white and black as d’Artagnan presented. Never forgetting didn’t mean never forgiving, for example. He took hold of the rest of the bags and went to the door, effectively ending the conversation. 

-o-

Antonio Gabrieli, Inquisitor of the Supreme Tribunal of Venice, had just retired to his study after a stodgy dinner, when a servant interrupted his quietude to announce that Leon was at the door. Although all the servants of _Il Rosso_ were loath to trouble their master when he was in his study, they knew that Leon was no ordinary visitor. He was to be let in at any time – were it day or night. 

Gabrieli didn’t need to say anything; a slight nod and the servant knew his orders. Soon Leon stepped inside the study, shutting the door carefully behind him. The small man had been in the room many times before and forwent the greetings and customary politeness; he sat down in his usual high-backed chair and went straight to the point. He had learned long ago that his employer didn’t appreciate people who wasted his time with empty prattle.

“Four Frenchmen arrived this morning from Mestre, and they took a room in Modena’s tavern. They told that their names were Conte de la Fére, signori Aramis and Porthos, and a valet called d’Artagnan. They had lunch and after that they left. A few hours later the valet and Signore Aramis came back only to get all of their things and give up the room; they refused to say why. I followed them back to Ca’ Monteverdi – it appears that they are now staying there.”

Gabrieli listened to Leon’s account impassively, the new information joining the facts already known to him. In his mind, he quickly repositioned the pieces on the board and started to plan and adjust his moves accordingly. All the while he listened carefully, knowing that Leon rarely told anything useless. 

“The word is that the Conte has come to Venice to look for trade possibilities and to see his wife. It was implied that the Contessa left her husband rather abruptly. I searched their room; there wasn’t anything to suggest they are not who they claim to be. But they are traveling very lightly. I sent out inquiries to Paris, but it may take some time to get answers.”

“And the Contessa?” The beautiful Frenchwoman had been under surveillance the moment she had come to Venice with the Monteverdis. 

“Still nothing overly suspicious. She hasn’t met the Duke or anyone linked to him.”

“And what about the other one?” Gabrieli didn’t have to specify who he meant. The stone-faced Frenchman, who had arrived the day before, had instantly been noted to be someone, who had to be kept on very close watch. 

For the first time, Leon fidgeted a little, revealing his nervousness. “ _Pierre_ , or whatever his name really is, has been mainly staying in his lodgings and walking aimlessly around…he, ugh, managed to lose his tail yesterday – after half an hour, we found him again in la Piazza.” 

Only a slight frown betrayed Gabrieli’s dissatisfaction. His opponents seemed to be in place, but they hadn’t yet revealed their moves. However, he knew that the inaction was deceptive; they were all planning and scheming. Soon time would run out and if someone wanted to stop the Duke’s plans, they would have to risk acting out in the open. When that happened, _Il Rosso_ would be ready for them.

-o-

Louise unfastened the corset, but still Anne felt short of breath. She was highly aware that Athos was just behind the door, in a room they now had to share together. A litany of curses – towards Signore Monteverdi, who couldn’t stay out of other people’s business to save his life; towards the _bloody_ Musketeers, who just had to come and ruin everything – had been swirling in her head the whole evening, but she had been unable to release the words, always in the company of someone who expected her to act like a lady. 

Now Anne itched to release her frustration and rage, but once more, she had to bite her tongue. She knew that Louise would not be bothered by coarse language; the unflappable maid had only blinked when informed that her mistress had a husband she had never even heard of. Louise knew not to ask any questions, and furthermore, having spent a part of her childhood in the streets of Paris – much like Anne herself – she had undoubtedly heard every manner of curse and insult already.

Athos believed the worst of her, so Anne doubted he would be much amazed if she let loose a few choice words. However, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how upset she was by his intrusion into her well thought-out plans. She would not reveal anything to him, especially not how badly the Musketeers’ arrival had complicated things. Already the smug bastard believed he had the upper hand – well, let him. It would be all the sweeter, when Athos would finally realize how wrong he had been. 

After a cursory wash Louise handed her mistress a clean linen chemise, which Anne put on quickly. The dressing room was not heated, and the damp and chilly air was starting to seep beneath her skin. She knew she couldn’t linger much longer without getting uncomfortably cold, but the mirror above the side table drew her gaze. Did she look any different than when she had married him?

“Anything else, Milady?” Louise had gathered the gown and undergarments, putting them neatly into their places. She stood calmly behind Anne, her reflection a small blur at her mistress’ shoulder. Suddenly Anne realized that Louise had been with her longer than most of the people she had known. 

“No thank you; you can go.” As the maid turned towards the dressing room door, Anne forced the words out, despite her initial hesitation to address the matter. “Louise. My husband and the men with him – you are to say nothing to them. They are not to be trusted.”

Louise nodded her assent; she had already guessed as much. The door closed behind her, and Anne sighed deeply – the image in the mirror sighed too. Her dark hair flowed freely down her back; the white chemise covered her arms to the elbows, her thighs to the knees. Anne touched the ribbon still tied around her neck. What Athos saw, when he looked at her? Did she look like a murderer? 

The cold shook her body, and disgusted, Anne tore the ribbon from her neck, throwing it to the floor. She would not cower in her dressing room like a coward. She had already met his accusing glare unflinching – she would do so again. She would show him that he could not affect her anymore. 

Anne put out the candles and opened the door to the bedroom, refusing to hesitate any longer. A candelabrum beside the bed was the only light left; the bedroom was full of dark shadows. Athos had not been idle while she had been readying herself for bed; he had undressed partly and now lay in a settee, his long legs sticking over the armrest. He had the pillow she had thrown him from the bed and a blanket he had gotten from somewhere else. He had to be deeply uncomfortable.

There was a rapier on the floor beside the settee, within an easy access. No doubt the rest of his weapons were tucked under the pillow and the blanket. What did he think – that she would try to murder him while he slept? 

Athos didn’t move, when Anne dashed to the large four-poster bed. She was certain that he was awake, but he remained motionless as she blew out the candles and burrowed under the soft covers seeking warmth. A lone sliver of moonlight came from the gap left between heavy curtains, infiltrating the bitch black of the room. If she turned her head, she could see his form on the settee. 

Breathing deeply, Anne closed her eyes, willing her heart to cease its restless pounding. Now was the time to finally think properly, to strategize in peace. It was clear that the Musketeers were in Venice because King Louis had sent them; the reason for that had to be the Duke of Orléans. It was obvious, even without the confirmation she had gotten during the very awkward dinner they had suffered through that evening. Athos had carefully, in a roundabout way, probed if some of his fellow countrymen were also staying in Venice. Their host hadn’t needed anything else to launch into a long tale of how the Duke of Orléans himself was there enjoying the Carnival. The Musketeers had hung on every word and had almost snapped into attention, when they had heard that the Duke was staying in Ca’ Gonzaga. It was clear that the Duke was their target. 

But what were their orders? The Musketeers probably sought to arrest the Duke, but first they would need proper evidence. They were acting in secret, so they didn’t trust the Venetians to help them. Anne knew they had to suspect her too. It didn’t matter that they had no proof; to them she would always be the deceiver, the spy, the murderer. But how different were they really? Hadn’t they too killed? Weren’t they there at that very moment deceiving and spying, pretending to be something they were not?

If she held her breath and listened closely, she could hear him breathing. Earlier, when they had retired to their room under the intolerable grinning of Signore Monteverdi, Athos had been expressionless and silent. He had refused to look at her, choosing to gaze anything else instead – the tapestries had been particularly fascinating. Damn him! Just when she had finally landed on her feet, had made a solid plan of action and had a course to follow, he turned up and she was on uneven ground again. 

She wouldn’t give up her plans. She couldn’t; her livelihood depended on it. The Musketeers would certainly complicate things, would make everything that much harder, but Anne knew she could complete her task. She had succeeded in worse circumstances many times before this. Maybe she could even use their presence to her advantage…

Satisfied, Anne let herself rest. She lay in the dark, waiting for sleep. Somehow, she knew that Athos too was still awake. They hadn’t been so near each other for a long time, not without threats and accusations and the promise of violence. Now there was only a half a dozen feet between them, and once again they lay together in darkness, silent. Before, they had been on the same bed, so close they were touching from head to toe. They had breathed the same air, watched each other with the happiness that comes from knowing that everything you have ever wanted was in your arms. She had felt utterly safe, completely true, unshakable in her belief that they would remain so, happy and in love, forever. 

Then it had all shattered. The true nature of the world – of men – had broken the foolish dream and left behind only bitter darkness and ruin. Hell had taken back what it had owned. 

Anne knew better than to dream anymore. There were no wishes or prayers on her lips, no false hopes. But still, if she could have sold her soul a second time, she would have gladly done so that very moment, just to feel Athos’ arms around her again, to have him hold her like he had before, so very long ago, in another life.


	8. Plans in Motion

_Thus march we, playing, to our latest rest,_  
 _Only we die in earnest, that’s no jest._

\- Sir Walter Raleigh (1552-1618), _What is Our Life?_ -

-o-

_The Twenty-Eight of February, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

Her mistress was having a midday stroll with Signora Monteverdi, so Louise was finally able to rest her feet for a while. She had already made sure that Milady’s evening gown was ready for the coming party, that some of her other clothes were being properly washed by the household’s servants, and that the guest bedroom was being cleaned throughout. Louise would have perhaps an hour before her mistress would need her again. Eager to escape the other servants – especially the sour-faced head valet Luca, who seemed to think he could give orders to _her_ – she quickly climbed the backstairs to the attic. Louise was sharing a small room with two maids, but for the time being the girls were busy downstairs with household chores. For once, she could have the room for herself.

Louise bounced the last few stairs up and almost collided with a man on the landing.

“Whoa, careful there!” The man exclaimed, steadying her with a hand on her arm. It was the Comte’s valet, d’Artagnan. 

“Excuse me,” Louise mumbled, irritated and embarrassed. She moved to go past him, but the young man didn’t give her any room, standing stoutly at the top of the stairs. 

“You are Louise, right?” He smiled bashfully, seeming harmless and kind. Louise didn’t believe him for a second. She doubted the man was even a valet, and if he was, then judging from his work he wasn’t a very good one. Louise refused to smile or even nod her head. 

D’Artagnan’s smile dimmed a little, but the man couldn’t take a hint and so he continued, “I thought…well, it’s kind of lonely here around all these Venetians – I can’t understand a word they say. Since we are both foreign here, I thought…that is perhaps we could…”

Louise sighed. They would be standing there the whole day, if she didn’t put him out of his misery. “If you are trying to get me into bed with you, then the answer is most definitely no.”

“No!” D’Artagnan blushed and shook his head. “Of course not, I don’t – I just thought that if you wanted to talk or to go somewhere…to see the city, nothing untoward or shady, I promise!” 

In spite of herself, Louise was amused. She did believe he hadn’t meant to proposition her, but otherwise his sincerity was surely an act. “If you stop blocking my way, perhaps I could believe you.”

The young man turned even more crimson and quickly moved out of her way. “I’m really sorry, I didn’t mean to corner you. But I would like to have some company – what do you say?” He smiled hopefully.

Louise stepped into the corridor, keeping as much space between them as possible. Despite her suspicions, he was quite endearing and for a moment she felt a temptation to accept his invitation. But it was only for a moment; soon her inherent common sense and caution prevailed. “I really don’t have the time, but thank you anyway,” Louise answered firmly and went quickly past him, before he could say anything else. Soon she was alone in her room, thoughts restlessly racing in her head.

The arrival of the four Frenchmen had clearly rattled her mistress; especially the Comte, who claimed to be her husband. Louise wasn’t privy to Milady’s schemes, but she knew her mistress earned her living with less than savory ways. She would follow her mistress’ lead; if Milady said her name was Anne de la Fére, Louise repeated that name until she could say it in her sleep. If Milady said she had a husband Louise had never even heard of, then she would repeat the lie until it was the truth. But this time, Louise had a feeling that maybe for once her mistress was telling the truth. Or at least the truth about her name and husband. The way the two were with each other…There was a wealth of history there; certainly wariness but also familiarity. 

Whatever the Comte’s relationship with her mistress, the Frenchmen were not their allies or friends. As Milady had said, they were not to be trusted. The meeting with d’Artagnan had proven that Louise would have to be careful. The valet would need more than bumbling words or charming smiles to affect her; in spite of her young age, Louise wasn’t any naïve country girl, easily charmed by handsome looks and little attention. She had grown on the streets of Paris and had seen many swindlers and crooks and liars. She knew all their tricks. 

Louise closed her eyes and lay on the narrow bed. She didn’t want to think about the past. Never again would she be so hungry that even stealing could barely keep her alive. Never again would she be forced to fear for her life and what little remained of her virtue. Milady had seen her, had given her a chance, a better way to live. For that, Louise owed her everything. And she would never, not in a million years, betray her mistress. Not for gold nor power, and certainly not for any endearing smile. 

-o-

Piazza San Marco was teeming with people, full of noise, colors and life. The huge square, which was the central of Venice, its pride and beating heart, was full of Carnival entertainments and amusements. Wooden stalls and stands were offering anything from food and drink to magic tricks and tarot card readings. Jokers, acrobats, fire-eaters and troupes of actors fought for the attentions of passers-by. Exotic animals from faraway lands were displayed for the amazement of children and adults alike. The magnificent _La Piazza_ and the grand buildings lining it were an extraordinary sight on any given day, but during the Carnival it was like a scene from a fairytale or a dream.

On their second day in Venice, Giovanni Monteverdi had proudly showed the Musketeers this symbol of Venice’s power and wealth as he had given them a tour around his home city. They hadn’t had to fake their interest or how impressed they were with their surroundings. Now two days later, Porthos and Aramis were back in the square, this time with a task more pressing than mere sightseeing. They had followed the Duke of Orléans and his small entourage of soldiers to _Palazzo Ducale_ , the Doge’s Palace. The great palace was the residence of the Doge, but it also housed the institutional chambers; the many halls, meeting rooms and offices of Venice’s counselors and state officials. 

Following the Duke was the first part of their plan, although it was unlikely to yield much success. It seemed that so far the Duke met his conspirators either in Ca’ Gonzaga, where he was staying, or in _Palazzo Ducale_. Either place remained inaccessible to the Musketeers for the time being. However, it was important to observe who the Duke met, where he went and who accompanied him. The heir to the French throne was never alone; at least a half a dozen men flanked him, most of them experienced soldiers. Getting near him wouldn’t be impossible, but it certainly wouldn’t be very easy. 

Tailing the Duke was mainly Porthos’ and Aramis’ responsibility, since they could leave Ca’ Monteverdi without too many questions. Their host took much of Athos’ time, showing him the various business ventures he had a hand in and introducing him to other merchants. Porthos didn’t envy Athos’ task; he had to play interest in dull business talk and somehow also keep an eye on his former wife. D’Artagnan however had gotten the most boring part of their plan, for maintaining his role required that he for the most part followed Athos around silently, getting all the dullness but none of the advantages. He had another task though too; he was to strike a rapport with Milady’s maid and get as much information out of her as he could. Maybe d’Artagnan could get some enjoyment out of that at least.

Porthos swallowed the last of his strangely flavored meat pie, wiping his greasy fingers on his trousers. He and Aramis were leaning on the white marble columns of the Doge’s Palace. The building’s arcade faced the _Piazzetta_ , which was the adjoining space that connected the main square with the lagoon. It was an ideal place to wait for their quarry; it was next to the palace, but still a public place. People were resting under the arcade’s shade, just passing by or watching the street performers. Porthos and Aramis had spent the better part of the afternoon there, pretending to watch the play a troupe of actors were enthusiastically performing. It was called something like _Othello, the Moor of Venice_ and was quite obviously a tragedy as most of the characters ended up dead. 

When Othello had killed himself a second time, Porthos turned towards Aramis. “They are getting lackluster; the performances aren’t as energetic or arresting this time around. But I bet dying half a dozen times during a day takes the shine out of it.”

“What, so you are a theatre critic now?” Aramis’ eyes kept roaming the crowd. They hadn’t exchanged many words over the last hour, each focused on their task – and on their own thoughts. 

“I’m just saying, they should really take a break. If not for their own sanity, then for mine. I don’t know how long I can watch that drivel.” 

“Oh, I don’t know…I find the play quite riveting,” Aramis smirked.

“How long is he going to be?” Porthos fidgeted, trying to find a more comfortable position against the pillar. “Maybe he has already left and we missed him.”

“We didn’t miss him.”

“Then maybe he left via another exit.”

“He didn’t leave via another exit.”

“How would we know?” Porthos’ back was beginning to hurt from leaning against the hard stone. “We have been staying here for hours, being tortured with bad performers and meat pie tasting suspiciously like old fish, having nothing more to drink than one cup of wine – _one_! He could be back in that grand palazzo he is staying, eating and drinking his fill, taking a nap on his soft feathery bed…”

Aramis snorted, clearly amused by his friend’s theatrical tone. “You should be one of the performers with that tale of woe. He is still there – two of the soldiers from his entourage are there by that acrobat.” He gestured towards a group of people standing in a circle around a small skeletal man, who was twisting himself into strange and very painful looking positions. The two soldiers were instantly recognizable from the rest of the crowd, for they wore no masks.

“Well, maybe they were left behind.” Porthos didn’t want to abandon his doubts readily; not least because he hadn’t seen the two men, which made him a little embarrassed. Maybe he had focused on that blasted theatre group more than he ought. 

“Maybe,” Aramis conceded, but they both knew that didn’t mean that they could leave their post until the Duke appeared or it became absolutely clear that they had somehow missed him. “But they showed up a minute ago, so perhaps that means he is ready to leave.” 

Porthos felt a little better hearing he hadn’t missed the soldiers’ presence for more than a few minutes. They really were quite obvious amid the masked crowd. Porthos was glad that Signore Monteverdi had gifted Carnival masks to them – they could stand hours on the square and attract little attention. The half-mask covered the eyes, nose and upper cheeks, but more importantly, it made its wearer just one among many. That way, they could follow their target without exposing their identities. However, the large number of masked people in the city also meant that they themselves could be easily tailed. Porthos had seen a man with a black robe and a white, whole face mask a few too many times to not became suspicious, but who knew if the man was even the same man – similar masks and outfits were plenty around them. All the same, it made him nervous. 

Porthos scrutinized the Duke’s soldiers. They were laughing and walking towards a street vendor, who sold wine. They didn’t seem to be in any hurry. “Another hour and we are going to miss dinner. How are we going to explain that to our terminally curious host?”

“We just simply lost the track of time amid such splendid pleasures.”

Porthos looked at a flock of prostitutes, who were quite openly exhibiting their charms to any interested onlookers. “Were that the case.” 

For the next half-hour they continued to survey their surroundings silently, but the Duke didn’t appear and the soldiers didn’t make any move to leave the _Piazzetta_. Porthos was hungry, bored and frustrated; this part of the mission was always his least favorite. Tomorrow evening couldn’t come soon enough, when with some luck, all the waiting and watching would come to an end and they would finally get some results. Marquis Gonzaga was having a party at his palazzo and apparently all the important people would be there. The Musketeers could hardly be called important people, but as Monteverdi’s guests their host’s invitation had been extended to them. It was the perfect opportunity to get inside Ca’ Gonzaga and search the Duke’s rooms for the treaties. 

“I’m going to stretch my legs.” Porthos took a step away from the pillar, feeling a twinge in his back. He eyed the Duke’s soldiers, who had gotten their cups of wine and had now stopped in front of an old man purporting to be a magician. Maybe he could get close enough to hear what they were saying. 

“Don’t do anything too rash,” Aramis warned, guessing what his friend had in mind. 

“When do I ever?” Porthos grinned and started to slowly meander amid the stalls, performers and crowds of people. He kept his eyes on the soldiers, but stopped a few times to watch a fire-eater and a joker, not wanting to approach his targets too quickly. He wouldn’t have to have worried about exposure though; when he stopped to stand behind the soldiers, they were too much in high spirits to notice that they were being listened. But there Porthos’ good luck ended; the men talked about women, what they wanted to do in Venice, how the magician could make the eggs disappear – in short, _everything_ else than what Porthos wanted to hear. He turned towards the arcade, giving Aramis a dejected look. He got a wide grin in return. 

At least Aramis seemed to be acting more like his old self. Despite Athos and Aramis clearing the air between them during the journey, Porthos’ worry hadn’t abated. Something was still weighing on Aramis’ mind. Many times he had thought about raising the issue with his friend, mostly when they were in their room, but despite the privacy, the time seemed never right. Besides, they were in the middle of a mission, and Porthos didn’t want to rock the boat. Aramis seemed focused on their task and maybe he was finally getting over whatever had been eating him inside. It would be better, if Porthos didn’t interfere with that. 

Suddenly the bells of St Mark’s Basilica’s bell tower started ringing. _Campanile di San Marco_ stood in the corner of the piazza, close to the great church and the Doge’s Palace. The bells rang on the hour, but Porthos was certain it wasn’t yet the time for the next ringing of the bells. Some of the performers finished their shows and people were starting to gather at the lagoon-side of the _Piazzetta_ , near the two large granite columns.

Porthos glanced back to Aramis; his friend had already left their surveillance spot and was walking towards the amassing crowds. For a moment Porthos was confused, for it wasn’t like Aramis to abandon his post even when something unusual was happening. But then he saw what had drawn the other Musketeer away; the Duke of Orléans had arrived to the scene in the company of a troop of soldiers and some Venetian counselors, Leonardo Gonzaga among them. Porthos quickly moved to get to Aramis’ side. All around them, people were chattering excitedly, pushing each other aside for a better look. It was obvious that something interesting was happening.

Porthos reached Aramis fairly quickly, despite being nearly run over by a company of women, whose voices were raised to such a pitch Porthos thought for a moment he would go deaf. 

“What do you think is happening?”

“Nothing good.” Aramis’ expression was grim. There was a horde of people in front of them, but they could still see clearly the wooden stage that had been erected between the great columns. On top of one of the pillars stood a winged lion – the symbol of Venice. Behind the stage, the pale sun glistered on the surface of the lagoon, the boats and ships like black dots of various sizes against the hazy sky. Porthos suddenly felt a chill go through his body; he knew what was about to happen. The bells had rung for an execution.

Soon Porthos was proven to be right. A wretched looking man was escorted to the scene and hoisted on to the platform. His hands were bound, his clothes ragged and dirty, his frame emaciated by his time in a prison cell. The eyes on his ashen face couldn’t settle anywhere; they moved from face to face, as if he was looking for someone. Not so long ago Porthos had been in that man’s place, waiting for a very public death. He wondered if the man was innocent. 

An expectant hush fell over the crowd as a darkly dressed man stepped on to the stage with a large battle axe. He was followed by one of the Venetian councilors, who loudly announced the offences of the convict in both Venetian and Latin.

“What did he say?” 

“The convict is guilty of treason against the Republic of Venice. Because he has confessed his crimes, has given up the names of his conspirators and has prayed for mercy, he has been given a death by decapitation.” Aramis sounded impassive, but Porthos knew he wasn’t unaffected. Witnessing an execution was never a common thing, even if it was an “easy” death, like relatively quick and painless decapitation. Sometimes there was a place for it, for the worst criminals had to be punished by death, but still, to Porthos it felt unnatural, even perverse. Death happened in the heat of a battle or a brawl; it came in dark alleys and shadowy forest paths and snowy fields. For him, it was the consequence of disease, wounds or killing; it was rarely premeditated, seldom deliberately cruel. Executions were spectacles for the common people, a twisted play he detested. 

The man seemed to be resigned to his fate; without prompting, he kneeled and bowed his head as the crowds shouted abuse and jeers. The executioner raised his axe – a powerful swing and it was over. The crowds cheered. Porthos was in a foreign country, amid foreign people with foreign customs, but death and people’s reaction to it was the same here as everywhere else. 

“I wonder if it even crosses his mind that by all the laws and justice, he should earn the same punishment as that man.” Aramis was watching the Duke of Orléans fixedly, his face stony. 

“Yeah, well let’s talk about it later.” Porthos was uneasily aware that there were too many people around them; any one of them could perhaps understand French. The Duke’s entourage seemed to be leaving, and after courteous goodbyes the Duke walked towards the heart of the piazza, Aramis and Porthos on his tail. To Porthos’ relief, the entourage headed for Ca’ Gonzaga; soon they could relinquish their watch and he would be able to enjoy Monteverdi’s delicious dinner with some of the best wines he had ever tasted. 

But long after they had left their quarry behind, Porthos couldn’t help but think about Aramis’ words. The Duke of Orléans, even if caught red handed with the treaties proving his treason against the King, would be unlikely to suffer the same fate as the nameless man in the piazza. He was one of the highest ranking nobles in France, the King’s brother, the heir to the throne. And if one put aside all that – what was the right punishment for treason? Was public execution justice or just vengeance?


	9. On the Prowl

_Her whispers trembled through these credulous ears,_  
 _And told the story of my utter ruin._

\- Nathaniel Lee (c. 1653-1692), _Mithridates: King of Pontus, a Tragedy_ -

 

-o-

_The First of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

Their plan dissected and analyzed, every possible contingency taken into consideration, they were as ready as they were ever going to be. Athos looked closely at each of the men gathered in Porthos’ and Aramis’ room. His friends all looked ready, eager and capable, although some of them would have a more dangerous role to play than others. It fell on Porthos and Aramis to search the Duke’s private rooms. Athos would just have to get through the night among the nobles and richest merchants of Venice without arousing suspicion, while d’Artagnan would have to remain behind in Ca’ Monteverdi. 

“Are you sure I can’t come?” D’Artagnan sounded slightly petulant; Athos understood his frustration, as he too didn’t take kindly to sitting and waiting while others did the necessary, potentially dangerous, work. But there wasn’t any believable reason for d’Artagnan to accompany them – servants were not invited to Marquis Gonzaga’s famed masked ball. 

“The Monteverdis are not going to bring any servants with them; Ca’ Gonzaga has more than enough,” Athos reasoned, but declined to pacify his young friend more than that. He knew that despite his protestations, d’Artagnan understood and would do what was best for their mission.

“Perhaps you can take another shot at Louise,” Porthos teased, “and this time not to come across as a bumbling idiot.” D’Artagnan blushed slightly. He had done the mistake of telling others the full details of his encounter with the maid. It had amused his comrades greatly, perhaps more so because there was so little to laugh about their current situation. 

“I’ll do just fine, thank you,” d’Artagnan retorted, making Porthos guffaw in disbelief. Their young companion smiled good-naturedly in response, conceding, “I’ll _try_ at least. And I can do more – I can search Milady’s room.” He turned towards Athos eagerly, willing to do more than to just wait for the others to come back. 

Athos shook his head. “It’s no use. I already searched it, when I had the chance. She has not left anything incriminating for us to find.” He grimaced in remembrance; while he had been elbow-deep in her undergarments drawer, it had dawn on him that the moment was probably a new low for him during the mission. In addition to a few hidden daggers, he hadn’t even found anything interesting. No secret correspondence or suspicious vials of liquids nor a contract with the devil signed with blood. The search had been utterly futile. What was worse: he was pretty sure she knew about it. She had traded especially vicious barbs with him that night. 

“It doesn’t hurt to search again, there’s little risk; if he is caught, as your valet d’Artagnan has a plausible reason to be there,” Aramis suggested. The others were in agreement with him, so Athos acquiesced, although he saw little chance for success. But perhaps it would be prudent to give d’Artagnan something meaningful to do. 

“Don’t worry – I won’t go through your things,” the young Musketeer promised mock-solemnly. 

“You better not,” Athos threatened, half-serious. Privacy had always been important to him; even more so after he had lost everything he had loved nearly six years ago. What little he had had left, were it memories or a certain locket, he had guarded almost jealously. Although he had since learnt to let go, had taken hesitant steps to confide in his friends, old habits were hard to shed. 

“It’s time,” Aramis said, smoothing down his doublet. All except d’Artagnan had donned their best attires and Carnival masks. The Monteverdis had decided that the best time to arrive at the party was half-an-hour after the given time, so they could be fashionably late; now that time was fast approaching. 

“Have fun,” d’Artagnan wished airily, making a good effort to hide his apprehension. They all knew that if they were caught their whole mission would irrevocably change. They would have to be ready for violence, arrest and interrogation. It would be a completely different game. 

“You too,” Porthos winked. Nothing more needed to be said; they headed down the stairs. As Athos stopped at the next landing, his friends continued to the entrance hall on the ground floor. Athos had a duty he couldn’t shirk – he had to escort his wife to the waiting gondola. Heart suddenly heavy, he stopped for a moment before the doors of the guest bedroom, steeling himself for what waited him inside. 

The last few days had been a special kind of ordeal he had never imagined. It was discomforting to see an echo of the once so dear smile, to recognize small habits and gestures that he was once so intimately familiar with. Athos had tried to separate the woman he had once loved from the woman who had killed his brother; the enticing dream from the brutal reality. But with every hour spent in Anne’s presence, he was starting to reluctantly realize that the lines were not so easily drawn; the things he had loved about her existed in the woman before him, and the woman he now shared a room with had somehow been present all along in the wife he had adored. As difficult as it was to accept, they were one and the same, had always been. The woman who had loved him so passionately was also the woman who had coldly murdered Thomas.

He did his best to banish these thoughts, but the small signs of the past – the way she twined a lock of hair around her finger absent-mindedly, how she slanted her head slightly as she contemplated something – they woke memories of better times and made it sometimes nearly unbearable to be in the same room with her. Ironically, he wasn’t supposed to let her out of his sight; it made him irritable, curt and cold towards her, a fact that surely only reinforced the story of how she had fled from her cruel husband. It didn’t go unnoticed, but although Signore Monteverdi’s affable nature wasn’t affected by Athos’ behavior, the Signora had grown sour towards him, no doubt disapproving of the way he treated her friend.

Just as Athos was going to enter the big guest bedroom, the double doors were suddenly opened and a young maid hurried out. Louise gave him a hasty curtsy before she vanished down the corridor, leaving Athos standing in the doorway. 

“Are you coming in or are you just going to stand there?” Anne was in all her finery; the salmon pink, short-sleeved gown was embroidered with intricate patterns of small flowers, and she had wrapped a long string of pearls around her neck, covering her scars. She was sitting on the bed, fastening dangling pearl earrings to her earlobes. Athos’ gaze was inevitably drawn to the small high-heeled shoes and silk-stockings her skirt had risen to reveal. 

“Are you ready?” He asked, rather stupidly. He hated that she could render him witless by just flashing her ankle. 

“Close the door.” He didn’t have a good reason not to comply. As Athos pushed the doors closed, Anne stood up, the long hem covering all but the toes of her silver gray shoes. 

“Would you mind?” There was a small mask dangling from her hand. His mind as carefully blank as he could make it, Athos took the mask and stood behind her. Her dark hair was up in delicate swirls; apart from the shining rows of pearls, her neck was bare and vulnerable. He lifted the mask and fitted it against her face; he was so close his fingers brushed her hair, the shape of her ear. As quickly as he could manage, he tied the silk ribbon behind her head and then stepped back as if he had been scalded. 

Anne turned, her mouth widening with that blasted smile from the past. “Thank you.” Decorated with silver thread, the Carnival mask was like a piece of jewelry. It covered her eyes and nose, but it could not hide the graceful lines of her face. She picked up a matching cloak and draped it over her shoulders.

“We should go.” He was already turning towards the door, wanting to put some distance – and other people – between them. 

“Wait,” Anne said. It was more of a request than a demand; Athos told himself that was the reason he stopped. She looked solemn and a little hesitant. “Athos…whatever you are trying to do here – I could help you. Surely it wouldn’t be so intolerable to trust me?”

“I’ll never trust you.” His words may have been harsh, but his tone was soft.

Her expression tightened and her eyes hardened. “Fine – but you could still use my help. You are on foreign ground here and you have no allies. The Duke –”

“What about him?” Athos tensed. If she knew about their plan – that would be a whole new hurdle on their way.

“Oh please; it doesn’t take much to deduce that you are here because of him. He is notoriously treacherous.” Anne took a step towards him, her piercing gaze never leaving his face. “He has dozens of men; you have just three.”

“As I have said before – keep out of our way.”

“And what happens, if whatever ploy you have hatched is exposed? I’ll be dragged in to the most-likely very bloody aftermath,” she huffed, clearly annoyed.

She was right. To the outside world it would seem that she had been in on the plan – at the very least she had known their true identities. The Venetians would interrogate her, perhaps punish her too. And if Anne wasn’t scheming against them, she didn’t deserve to suffer from their actions. “I’ll tell them the truth – that you had no part in it,” Athos assured. 

“And if you get what you came here for?” 

“We’ll leave. Don’t worry; you can continue this…farce as long as you like. I won’t reveal your lies, if you don’t interfere with our mission.” He would leave her be and hope that their paths would never again cross. 

“And if I did? Would you really see me tortured or killed?” She challenged, smiling wryly. 

“It’s in your own hands,” Athos evaded the question he didn’t know the answer to. 

“In _my own_ hands,” she repeated mockingly. Her laugh was empty, void of any mirth. “For the longest time…in every man I kissed – or killed – I imagined your face.” She closed the gap between them, coming so close that he could feel her breath on his face. Just an inch and they would have been touching. “And what about you?” Her voice was quiet, deceptively tender. “Were you thinking of me every time you were with a woman? Were you wishing it was me every time you thrust your blade into someone’s heart?”

“No,” he denied, throat parched. 

“Liar,” she whispered in his ear. She wasn’t entirely wrong.

Heart beating restlessly with her nearness, her words awoke thoughts and memories he would have rather forgotten, Athos took a single step back. For his relief, his voice came out steady and emotionless. “The others are waiting.” Carefully keeping his expression calm and collected, he offered her his arm. 

Anne’s eyes, full of intense feelings he wasn’t ready to name, stayed on his face. “Anything for the mission.” She placed her hand on his arm, like a burning brand. Wordless, Athos escorted her down the stairs to the pier, where others were already waiting for the Comte and Comtesse de la Fére. 

The whole way to the Ca’ Gonzaga, she held onto his arm. As the echo of the familiar smile, the aching feel of a well-known touch continued to haunt him, he could only think about one thing: how could he had ever thought that this would be a good idea?

-o-

After the weapons were carefully concealed beneath his dark clothes and everything else he needed was in the bag, Gérard headed down the stairs. It was late enough that the inn was full of people drinking and seeking company after a long workday. Some were already three sheets to the wind, either animatedly telling tales or morosely stirring up trouble. No one paid much attention to the foreign lodger, who went straight to the door. No one but a lone drinker in the corner; the weather-beaten sailor left his half-full cup to the table as he followed the Frenchman outside. 

The city had been blanketed by darkness, only a few torches were burning sporadically on the walls of buildings. It was a dangerous environment: a narrow turn of the lane could lead straight into canal or the steps on a walkway could vanish suddenly beneath murky water. Gérard strode confidently forward. He had used his time in the city well; he had walked the alleys and walkways of Venice many times a day, until he was confident that he could navigate successfully in the maze-like city. He knew which bridges he had to cross and which lanes to follow to get to where he wanted. 

Most of the walkways were deserted and eerie, and the only sound in them was the thumping of boats against the piers and the sides of canals. Gérard had no fear; he knew he was the most lethal animal on the streets. Certainly he was more dangerous and cunning than the man following him. 

The shape of a familiar church opened before him, and Gérard turned quickly to the right following a narrow alley. He crossed a bridge that was nothing more than an old wooden door and then turned suddenly into a small lane that didn’t lead anywhere. He stopped, back against a brick wall and waited. 

Soon small sounds of footsteps came nearer and the shape of a man emerged from the darkness. Gérard was ready; before the man realized that his quarry was waiting for him, the roles had already been reversed. The knife penetrated the flesh easily as the Frenchman knew exactly the best place where to push the blade. The Inquisitor’s spy toppled over with a soft cry. No one was around to hear him or to see his body dumped into the canal. It made a small splash and vanished under the surface. 

Gérard traced his steps back to the empty square that was dominated by the façade of a giant-like church. There was a small drinking fountain against one of the buildings; he washed his hands carefully under the cold water, just in case. It was too dark to see if his hands were stained with blood. Keeping an eye on any movement, Gérard got his Carnival outfit out of the bag. He donned the white whole-face mask and the black robe, knowing he would be next to impossible to recognize as the Frenchman, who lodged in _Calamaro_. 

He continued his journey, only rats for company. The city seemed to be deserted – as if the dark houses were as devoid of people as the streets, and the cloths and furniture, the food and other goods within had been all left to slowly rot in the dank air. But soon there were more torches on the walls, the flames mirrored on the surface of the dark water in narrow canals. A few shouts and short bouts of laughter cut the air. A gondola suddenly emerged from a side canal, the lantern on its stern swinging slowly to and fro. More houses showed signs of life; one of them had an open balcony door, revealing shapes of men gathered around a table, gambling. 

As the Grand Canal came into view, the city changed its appearance dramatically. There were numerous lights on the water; gondolas making their way up and down the main canal. Many of the great palaces were brightly lit, the lanterns and torches showing their extravagant riches. Venice was most certainly not deserted or slumbering – its people were gathering for merriment. 

Most of the gondolas were heading for the same place; the huge gothic palazzo Ca’ Gonzaga. The palace of Marquis Gonzaga, a rich and powerful member of the Council of Ten, rose above other buildings in its vicinity. On the banks of the Grand Canal, it was only a few alleys and one small bridge away from where Gérard was standing and watching the arrival of richly clad guests. 

He waited for a moment, and then judging that most of the guests had freshly arrived to the ball, he walked to the back of the palazzo. This was the moment that the bustle and hustle would be at its greatest; the servants busy getting the noble guests settled, trying to fill their every wish. As Gérard had anticipated, the backdoor of the palace opened regularly, as the servants came outside to ditch scraps and waste to the side canal or darted to the cold air just to get some relief from the furnace that was undoubtedly the palace kitchens. It was easy to slip inside unnoticed; after that he acted like he belonged there and no one dared to challenge him. 

Without hurry, he familiarized himself with the palazzo, memorizing the exits and the layout. The palace was a huge five-story building, but it was easy to guess where different rooms were situated. No doubt the Duke’s rooms were on the fourth-floor that was closed to the guests; there was a bored looking valet standing on the fourth-floor landing, politely directing straying people back the stairs to piano nobile, where most of the ball was taking place. 

Gérard mingled with the nobles and merchants, but carefully kept himself out of any conversations. He moved from room to room, sipping wine from his crystal glass, taking notice of the different people he could recognize and the ones, who were clearly soldiers, there to safeguard the host and his important guests. The Duke of Orléans was the center of attention; a circle of sycophants surrounded him, bowing and scraping. Gérard kept well away from them, but observed the Duke inconspicuously. It was early yet – he would have to wait for the right moment. 

Suddenly Gérard’s attention turned to the wide doorway to the ballroom; a new group of people pushed their way through the crowd to the room, and although Gérard had anticipated that they too would arrive to the party, he couldn’t help but tense. He didn’t doubt for a second that the three Musketeers and Milady de Winter didn’t have their own plans for the night, but they would do well to keep out of his way – he was still the most lethal animal on the prowl.


	10. The Masked Ball - part 1

_Pour tromper un rival l'artifice est permis; on peut tout employer contres ses ennemis._  
 _(To mislead a rival, deception is permissible; one may use all means against his enemies.)_

\- Armand Jean du Plessis, Cardinal-Duc de Richelieu et de Fronsac (1585 – 1642) -

 

-o-

_The First of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

Gold, silver and crystal gleamed in the warm glow of hundreds of candles. The grand rooms were decorated with rich fabrics, gilded furniture, beautiful tapestries and the famed Murano glass, in every color imaginable. However, the people crowded into these large rooms were not easily overshadowed by their magnificent surroundings: dazzling diamonds and precious stones worth a small kingdom adorned both women and men dressed in finery. Fashion styles ranged from the conventional Spanish dress to the exotic attires found in Ottoman Empire, from the most extravagant outfits to simple disguises. All wore a mask, either a small one that just covered the eyes or a larger piece, like the monstrous contraption that imitated the head of a three-headed beast. Marquis Gonzaga’s masked ball was the most fantastical and sumptuous party Athos had ever been to, full of opposing and whimsical details. 

From the first moments of arriving to the ball, Athos had hardly had time to draw his breath. Signore Monteverdi had dragged him excitedly through different rooms, eagerly introducing _his_ guest, Comte de la Fére, to different people. The merchants and some of the nobles were quick to latch onto his company, seeking ways to make money out of him or to use him to get more influence and power. Just as many deemed Athos uninteresting and beneath their notice, taking their leave after stiltedly exchanging the obligatory civilities. He bowed and smiled politely, answered questions as briefly as he could, admired Venice and praised the ladies. In short, he acted like a Comte, all the while remembering just why he hated these kinds of functions above all else: nothing there was real.

Aramis and Porthos had vanished into other rooms, no doubt to carefully take stock of the situation. Athos envied their task; he too wanted to just merge into the crowd, to be a stranger whose name and face didn’t matter. Instead he had to pretend like he was enjoying himself, while keeping a close eye on Anne. Athos didn’t dare to let her out of his sight, fearing she would somehow ruin their plan. He had to keep her out of Aramis’ and Porthos’ way, so he refused to let go of her arm, dragging her inconspicuously with him to every room and corner Signore Monteverdi led him. 

Anne seemed to take it all in stride; she didn’t try to dislodge his hand, but stood calmly beside him. She was the very image of a Comtesse, polite and charming, witty and interesting, the perfect counterbalance to Athos’ laconic and sometimes too straight-faced manner. He watched how she subtly got everyone to either admire or like her, even the other ladies, who were all competing against each other for attention. He was again reminded how dangerous she really was: she didn’t need weapons or money to make people give her what she wanted. Unlike Athos, Anne seemed to enjoy the party, not exhibiting any disquiet or impatience. From time to time she stole glances towards him, an amused smile on her lips, like they shared a mutual secret. 

After a while even Signore Monteverdi had exhausted his enthusiasm to introduce Athos to every single person they encountered; the Venetian merchant seemed almost relieved, when his wife demanded that he take her to the ballroom to dance. After the Signore had vanished from his sight, Athos politely withdrew from the conversation he had been drawn into, leaving the gentlemen and ladies to argue about Florentine art versus Venetian art without him.

“You look in desperate need of a strong drink,” Anne remarked dryly, when they had found a relatively crowd-free spot along one wall. “Should I get you one?”

“I’m sure I can find one soon enough.” Despite the open windows letting in the chilly air, the rooms were uncomfortably hot; the warmth of hundreds of bodies pressed in close and the open flame of countless candles raised the temperature to stifling. 

“I know how you hate these things,” she teased good-naturedly, “you always liked the quiet and simple life; just us in our home.” 

“Us – and Thomas.” Athos didn’t know why he said his brother’s name. Maybe he needed to remind himself as much as he needed to remind her that there had been three persons living in that house. That she couldn’t ever brush Thomas aside. 

Anne was quiet, her eyes on the surging, noisy crowd. A sea of bodies and none of them knew of the significance of the name that had just been uttered. Athos shuddered involuntary. He needed to keep his brother’s name between them, for everything else she had done – every horrible, murderous thing – he could perhaps forgive, but never Thomas. Never his brother. 

“I need a drink too,” Anne finally said, starting to move away from their place against the wall. Athos tightened his hold on her arm. There was no way he would let her vanish into the crowd. Anne stopped and turned. For the first time that evening, her lips were pursed up in anger. 

“This is getting quite tiresome – are you going to hang onto me the whole evening?”

Athos smiled bitterly, never loosening his hold. “Surely a man is permitted to keep his wife close in this den of adulators and traitors?” 

Anne gave a very unladylike snort. “Fine, whatever you want. But I’m not going to stand here stupidly all night – you’re getting me that drink, and then you are taking me to dance.”

He proceeded to do just that. Athos flagged down a servant carrying a silver tray with a row of crystal glasses. He quickly snatched two, full of dark liquid, and offered one of those to Anne. The servant gazed in amazement, as they both downed their drinks in one go, grimacing at the strong taste. The unfamiliar alcohol burned Athos’ throat but settled pleasantly at the bottom of his stomach. He took the empty glass from Anne’s hand and put it back to the tray with his own, smiling wildly at the poor servant. No doubt he looked half-mad. Then he led his wife to the ballroom, where the current dance was just coming to its end. 

The ballroom was a huge, long hall that was decorated with stunning frescos in the walls and the high ceiling, depicting old Roman gods and goddesses in the middle of their own merriment. A row of floor-to-ceiling windows covered entirely one of the long walls, revealing a stunning view of the Canal Grande; some of the windows were open, leading into a big balcony. At one of the narrower sides of the room was a platform, where the orchestra played their instruments. A mass of bodies filled the rest of the space, moving to the music, making patterns with their partners. 

Athos had never been particularly fond of dancing; too often it had been forced upon him, and it had been both tedious and awkward. He had felt himself to be an abysmal dance partner, not particularly good in either dancing or giving into the kind of conversation his partners seemed to be expecting of him. It had all changed, when he had met Anne. They hadn’t been in many balls or parties together, but the ones they had been were made bearable by the fact that he could take hold of her and twist and turn and guide her in the dance floor, keep her close. 

Athos knew it was a bad idea even before he guided her among the other dancers, and it became the worst idea, when some of the couples demanded _la volta_. The musicians started to play the requested dance, beginning it with _gaillarde_ , which was far from his favorite dance. It had a compilation of steps with leaps, hops and jumps that the dance partners did side by side, holding hands. The dance was fairly fast and had little room for error. The only pause the dancers got was when one of them stood still as their partner danced around them. First, Athos focused solely on the movements of his legs, certain he would make a misstep; he hadn’t danced in a long while. But the movements were etched in his muscle memory, like the different fight patterns and sword moves. 

When he was confident enough in his steps, Athos became acutely aware of his dance partner. Anne was a graceful dancer, gliding beside him and around him with precise steps, her hand on his warm and firm. As she danced, her eyes never moved from his face; he was the center of her fierce focus. As it came his turn to stand in place, Anne danced nimbly around him, the weight of her gaze anchoring him. He could do nothing else than to look at her, to be drawn into their own private space where there was only the music and their bodies advancing and retreating from each other; the rest of the dancers were just a blurry movement around them, the murmur of some forgotten sea. 

They didn’t talk, not even when they came close enough to hear each other. They had made a voiceless agreement not to shatter the delicate balance between them; this one dance was neutral ground, under a white flag. A fleeting moment in time, when Athos didn’t have to feel guilty about wanting to keep hold of her hand, for waiting heart pounding for that moment when finally the music changed its tempo and they moved closer to each other. He took hold of her waist, just below her busk; the other hand he placed firmly on her back. Anne put her hands on his shoulders, and he lifted her up as she sprang up into the air. When they had turned almost an entire circle, he let her down. They repeated this intimate movement for several measures, Athos drawing her into him, lifting her into his arms, until they had to part again and start the steps of the dance from the beginning. 

He moved like in a dream, hardly noticing the steps and hops his legs automatically made, his eyes on her face, waiting. He knew she was waiting too; finally the steps brought them close and he could once again take hold of her. Athos lifted her up, and the rest of the world seemed to stop. Anne was firm and alive under his hands; her chest was rising with rapid breaths, her smooth skin glistened with perspiration, her cheeks glowed with healthy redness. He drew her nearer still, pressing her body against him. Her hands were squeezing his shoulders, the nails sharp even through two layers of fabric. Once he had lifted her up much like this; they had been half-naked then. The move had ended in a different kind of dance. Judging from her dark eyes, she remembered the same. 

Suddenly the world rushed in: a jolt to his back, a loud laugh nearby. Athos realized that the music had stopped; the dance had ended and some couples were already leaving the dance floor, while he still held Anne up in the air. Slowly, carefully, he set her down. The moment ended. 

With some reluctance, Athos led them from the ballroom, wanting to find something to eat – and more importantly, something to drink. He knew he couldn’t get drunk, but a few glasses of that good liquor was definitely needed. Before he could find either food or drink, he was halted by a Venetian gentleman in dark attire, with a red leather mask on his face. 

“Comte de la Fére,” the stranger said in perfect French, bowing, “it is such a pleasure to finally meet you. Please let me introduce myself to you and –” the man took hold of Anne’s hand, kissing it lightly, “to your lovely wife.” Athos inclined his head and the stranger continued, smiling, “My name is Antonio Gabrieli, at your service.”

Athos schooled his features, hoping that nothing in his expression gave away his surprise and tension at having one of the Inquisitors, _Il Rosso_ , seeking his company. Did the man know or suspect something? “Nice to meet you,” Athos forced himself to say.

“I wholly concur with my husband; however, you must excuse me from your company – Signora Monteverdi needs me.” Anne’s smile was unruly, and she gestured towards their hostess, who was indeed gesticulating for Anne to come to her. Athos had no choice, but to let her draw her arm away from his. 

“Of course, _milady_ ,” the Inquisitor bowed to Anne, “I’m sure we will meet again soon.”

Anne turned towards Athos and with an impish glint in her eyes, she kissed his cheek gently. “Don’t worry, _mon coeur_ , I won’t go far.” Athos watched as she walked to Signora Monteverdi, and the two women started to eagerly whisper among themselves.

“Newly married?” Antonio Gabrieli asked, seeming amused. His mask covered the upper parts of his face, leaving the mouth and jaw bare; it revealed some of his emotions – depending on that they were real and not faked. 

“We’ve been married nearly seven years.”

“Ah – I congratulate you. In my experience, it’s rare that the ardor of the first year of marriage survives the second,” the Venetian chuckled, “but I watched you dance earlier – you are a very lucky man.”

Athos bristled with sudden anger, and he struggled to keep the noncommittal expression on his face. His eyes kept sliding to watch Anne; she had found a drink and was still animatedly conversing with her friend. 

“I have heard _so much_ about you,” Antonio Gabrieli continued. Although he was still smiling, his eyes were cold. 

“Likewise,” Athos confessed, not bothering to mask his grim voice. He was now certain that _Il Rosso_ knew who he really was or at least suspected – the man had dropped enough hints. 

“I see my reputation precedes me.” Finally the Inquisitor let the smile fade from his face, so the sharp lines of his mouth matched the harsh glare of his dark eyes. “Just as well – I find it much easier to do my job, when people know what to expect from me. I don’t like surprises, especially in my own city. It’s my duty to know _everything_.” He chuckled mirthlessly, warrior’s eyes assessing his opponent. “I’m afraid I am one of those people, who insist that everything will be done their own way.”

“And how often are things done your way?” Athos asked, assessing the man in turn. 

“Always.” Antonio Gabrieli’s voice was flat, unyielding. “You’ll find that I always get my way.” The men locked gazes, neither willing to give in. _Il Rosso’s_ mouth stretched into a sardonic smile, that Athos was certain was finally the man’s real smile. “Enjoy your evening – and your stay in Venice.” The man didn’t bother waiting for Athos’ reply; he turned on his heels and disappeared into the crowd. 

Rattled despite himself, Athos felt a tension creep into his muscles. The Musketeers had a new, unpredictable enemy, who had power and resources that they currently lacked. He hoped that Aramis and Porthos would be careful – and that the Inquisitor had just been testing the waters and didn’t really know who they were and what they were planning. But Athos wasn’t an optimist or a fool – he was quite certain that Antonio Gabrieli knew much more than he had let on. 

Athos started to make his way towards Signora Monteverdi, but stopped short, when he realized that in the circle of ladies around her, there was no glimpse of the familiar shape, the salmon pink dress. Frantically, he searched the room with his eyes, but Anne was nowhere to be seen. Athos had lost her from his sight – and he just knew it didn’t bode well for him or for his friends. 

-o-  
They didn’t waste any time enjoying the party, which Porthos thought was a shame, judging from the hungry gazes he bestowed both upon trays full of delicious food and strong drink _and_ upon ladies wearing low-cut gowns. Aramis however, was glad that they didn’t have to loiter among the insufferable partiers, who were currently spending as much wealth as it would take to feed the entire population of Paris for a whole year. 

Having first explored the main floor, _piano nobile_ , taking note of the exits and possible hindrances, they quickly moved to the next floor, where the living quarters of the family were situated. Although both the main staircase and the narrower stairs which the servants used were under guard, the men guarding them weren’t particularly vigilant. Aramis and Porthos easily deceived the young valet, who was standing at the top of the main stairs, after they had first managed to dodge the slightly more alert soldier stationed near the staircase at the main floor. 

The fourth-floor seemed eerily silent and empty after the mad throng of the floor below. The rooms were richly decorated, full of gilded furniture and fine art: they were fit for a king. Aramis and Porthos crept along the long, wide corridor, trying different doors. Most of them opened easily, revealing small salons or bedrooms that obviously belonged to women or children. Few were tightly shut and their locks had to be picked open. The first locked door revealed a study that no doubt belonged to the master of the house, and although it may have contained interesting documents, they carefully closed the door and moved forward. They found their target behind the second locked door: a suite of elegant rooms comprised of a salon, a large bedroom and a dressing room. 

A familiar rapier, resting against a chair, revealed who the resident of the suite was; they had seen the Duke of Orléans carrying the sword during the times they had followed him through the streets and canals of Venice. Aramis was certain that they had found the right place. Now they just had to find the treaties; luckily they had plenty of time, as the party had barely started and would continue long into the night. However, the biggest threat was that someone – a servant or the Duke himself – would for whatever reason come to the rooms in the middle of the ball. Although the fourth-floor was currently empty, there were no guarantees that it would remain so.

Aramis and Porthos didn’t need to talk about what they were going to do; they had planned it all in advance. Although the search would go quicker with two persons searching, Aramis stayed in the corridor as Porthos went into the Duke’s rooms. His task was to be on guard and give warning if anybody approached them. Full with nervous energy, Aramis would have preferred to be the one to search the rooms, but as only he could speak Latin, it was better if he was standing guard.

The corridor was deadly silent; the only noises came from the Duke’s rooms. Through the slightly ajar door Aramis could keep track of his friend’s progress. It sounded like Porthos was opening the drawers of the bureau and the desk, tapping on the wood to find secret compartments. Aramis knew that only very few missions were easily completed without any hurdles or surprises, but he couldn’t help but hope that this one would be one of them. He itched to return to Paris; although everything between him and the Queen had to be over, he wanted to see her, just to make sure that she was all right. The dark, pressing feeling inside him had only grown as more days passed, and the distance between Paris and Venice seemed to acquire more miles every moment. They never should have come to this foreign place and leave the Queen – and the King – vulnerable. 

Aramis tried to banish Paris and all that it entailed from his thoughts; he had to focus on the here and now. Although Gonzaga’s guards and the Duke’s soldiers had so far been criminally incompetent, Aramis knew that it all could change in a moment. But they needed to get those treaties – only then could they detain the Duke and make their way back to France. 

Suddenly footsteps echoed in the corridor, coming round the corner; it was all the warning Aramis got that someone was approaching. There was no time for hesitation, only seconds to decide. Should he shut himself in the Duke’s rooms with Porthos and hope the person wasn’t heading there? Or should he deflect the attention away from the Duke’s rooms? Aramis followed his instincts: he rapped on the door and pushed it shut, knowing Porthos would catch on to what was happening. Then he took as many steps as he could away from the door and sagged against a wall. He was just in time: a middle-aged man strode into view from behind the corner, coming to a sudden halt as he saw Aramis.

Aramis leaned against the tapestry and mumbled incoherently, making his legs unsteady. Unluckily, the man wasn’t any ordinary soldier, for he was the Duke’s Captain of the Guard. Whenever he had escorted his master around the city, the man had been vigilant and efficient. Aramis would have to put up his very best effort to fool him. 

“Hey!” The Captain exclaimed, hand already on his rapier. “What are you doing here?”

“What…” Aramis winced, trying to straighten up unsuccessfully, “what?” 

The man took a good look at Aramis, lips pursing in distaste. “You cannot be here, this is the private quarters.”

Aramis frowned like he didn’t entirely understand what was being said. He took a wavering step towards the man, claiming, “Need the privy – where’s…where’s the privy?”

“Not here,” the Captain said sharply, assessing how drunk Aramis really was. “Go back downstairs and the servants will show you.”

Aramis gave a convincing belch. Playing drunk was his specialty; he had had to convince people on numerous missions that he was in a drunken stupor. Nine out of ten times it worked surprisingly well – as in now. The Captain seemed to deem that Aramis’ drunken confusion was real; he took a hard hold of Aramis’ arm and dragged him towards the main stairs. Aramis didn’t protest, but went pliantly along, as it got the man further away from the Duke’s rooms and Porthos. 

“You there!” The Captain barked to the valet, who was standing at the top of the stairs, startling him. “How did he get here?”

The young valet looked at Aramis, his face blanching. He shook his head and muttered something in Venetian. The Captain sighed and pushed Aramis roughly towards the valet. “Just make sure he gets to the privy – and that he doesn’t come up here again.” 

Aramis had no choice but to let the valet lead him downstairs and to the privy, acting all the while drunk. He knew he couldn’t go back to the fourth-floor; if he was twice discovered there, the game would be over. Porthos was now on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The credit for the dance scene goes to MiladyFan, who suggested I should write Athos and Anne dancing, and then gave me the perfect dance as well :)


	11. The Masked Ball - part 2

_Le feu qui semble éteint souvent dort sous la cendre._  
 _(The fire which seems extinguished often slumbers beneath the ashes.)_

\- Pierre Corneille (1606-1684), _Rodogune_ -

 

-o-

_The Second of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The moment Athos’ constant attention towards her relented, his focus wholly elsewhere, Anne seized her chance. She had already lost too much time, unable to get away from Athos’ watchful gaze. The Inquisitor’s sudden interest in Athos had come as a welcome interruption, although it was also more than worrying – but Anne would think about that later. Now she had an assignment to perform and no time to lose. Maybe she was already too late and Aramis and Porthos had gotten into the Duke’s rooms; she hadn’t seen the pair anywhere for a while. But then again, just because they had perhaps searched the rooms didn’t mean that they had found what they were looking for. She still had a chance.

Hastily, but trying to be careful, Anne strode confidently towards the backstairs. She knew from experience that creeping about only attracted attention; the more purposeful she seemed, the more people would think that she had every right to be there. A bored-looking watchman was standing next to the stairs, coming slowly into attention, as he saw Anne approaching. Before the man could say anything, Anne quickly remarked that she needed to rest her feet for a moment in peace – casually like it was no big matter, but forcefully enough that the man didn’t want to argue with her. Without any hesitation or backward glance, Anne started to climb the stairs, and the watchman let her; he had no desire to challenge a rich noble woman. 

At the fourth-floor landing Anne halted, taking a deep breath. After the heavily crowded rooms and the constant movement and noise, the floor was jarringly empty and quiet. She felt hot, her skin itching in the confines of her silk dress. Her heart had hardly had the time to settle, still fiercely pounding in the rhythm of the music. Athos’ touch had left her rattled, uneasy. The line that had been drawn between them, the line they weren’t meant to cross – it shifted again and again, until she didn’t know where it was anymore. Damn him! Why did he always have to make everything so complicated?

Resolutely, Anne pushed the muddled thoughts away, concentrating on the empty corridor before her. She had some idea where the Duke’s rooms were situated – undoubtedly he would have the best rooms with a view of the Grand Canal. Certain of the right direction, Anne went to the left, her steps echoing lightly in the corridor. She looked appreciatively at the beautiful tapestries that covered the stone walls; if she had had more time, she would have liked to study the intricate patterns that formed pictures of scenery and people. She could only guess what story they told with their bright thread. 

Soon she was nearing the right door; behind it had to be the Duke’s rooms, hopefully empty. Anne had come up with dozens of scenarios, different ways she could turn the situation to her advantage, if the two Musketeers were really inside the suite. But nothing had prepared her for what happened even before she had a chance to try the door: from the opposite end of the corridor, a tall man walked into view, coming towards her. A man dressed in dark breeches and doublet, with a black cloak and a white whole-face mask. 

Instinctively, Anne knew the man wasn’t one of the Duke’s soldiers, nor did he belong to the Gonzaga household. The masked man came to a standstill, looking at Anne. There were more than half a dozen yards between them, and still the man’s intense gaze seemed to penetrate her very bones. Anne shivered, feeling exposed. A sudden, inexplicable terror started to take hold of her, as she stood riveted to the spot, like she was unable to move. 

It was impossible to see the face behind the horribly expressionless mask, but Anne could sense the malice, the sheer danger, surrounding the man. The simple mask itself was somehow awful, but the dark eyes in it – they were terrible, empty and familiar. She didn’t know why, but all of a sudden Anne had the feeling she _knew_ him. And he knew her.

It felt like they both stood there a long moment, frozen with surprise, just watching each other. It couldn’t have been very long however, perhaps only half a minute, while they both furiously thought to adjust their plans. It was painfully obvious that they both were there in secret, without the consent or knowledge of the owners of the house. Anne glanced hastily at the Duke’s door, estimating if she could manage to get into the rooms and lock the door before the man could stop her – and why did she think he would try to stop her? She just knew, and that instinctive knowledge had saved her skin many times; she wasn’t about to question it now. The man wished her harm, and would not let her escape to the rooms he probably himself wanted to get into. 

As if he had heard her thoughts, the masked man moved, suddenly striding towards her with violent purpose. Blood rushing with the imperative to flee, Anne put her hand to the door handle, hoping that against all odds, the door would not be locked. If it was – 

The man increased his speed, getting alarmingly closer. To her relief, the handle started to turn. But before the door could open, before the man could take another step towards her, a shout echoed in the corridor. 

“Milady!” The watchman, who had let Anne upstairs, emerged behind a corner, coming hurriedly towards them. For a moment the masked man and Anne froze again, uncertain how to handle this latest threat. Their eyes met, and although she could see nothing of his face, Anne had a feeling that the man was grimacing wryly. Then the man pivoted around and walked swiftly to the way he had come, leaving Anne to face the panting watchman alone. 

“Yes?” Anne tried her very best to pull herself together, to dispel any anxiety from her voice, to not give any indication that her heart was still racing from fear. Her expression haughty, she hoped she looked suitably annoyed. 

The portly watchman halted, looking at Anne and then over her shoulder. No doubt the masked man had already vanished. “Who…who was that?”

“I have no idea. Isn’t it your job to watch who goes here?” The man winced at the cold words or perhaps at the arrogant tone of her voice. “Well, what do you want?” Anne had turned away from the Duke’s door, hoping that the man wouldn’t notice where she had tried to go. 

“Forgive me, milady,” the man sputtered, “but I was wrong to let you –” At her sharp gaze, he quickly amended, “to send you here. These are the private quarters, and we have been instructed to let no one here. There is a salon downstairs, where the guests can rest.” 

There was no suspicion in the man’s eyes. It seemed he had simply regretted that he had let her upstairs and had come to rectify the situation. Anne thought about trying to persuade him into letting her stay, but quickly came to her senses. Although the man was intimidated by her, he would not be pressured into ignoring his orders again, not when he had come all the way upstairs to fetch her. 

“Very well,” she sighed, put-upon, and then continued to admonish, “but you could have said something a little earlier.”

The man blushed crimson, “I’m so sorry, milady. It was my fault.”

Annoyed, but knowing she had no other option, Anne started to walk towards the stairs, the blundering man hurrying to catch up. It seemed she would have to gain access to the rooms another way – the old fashioned way. 

Back in the third-floor she turned to address the watchman, “I hope that the man upstairs has a reason to be there.” She was certain the masked man also wanted to get into the Duke’s rooms. If he tried again – 

“He won’t get far,” the man assured her, “I’ll make sure the guards check the whole floor.” Back in charge, the man preened with self-importance. Anne didn’t bother to answer; she entered the first salon she came across, quickly moving to the next, when she didn’t found what she was looking for.

Finally, in the fourth room she entered, she found him. The Duke was holding court in the oval shaped sitting room, sprawling on a settee, surrounded by dozens of simpering ladies and lords. The young Duke was widely considered to be a handsome and entertaining member of the royalty, but also a pompous schemer. As a third son of Henry IV and Marie de’ Medici and an heir to the throne, Gaston was important figure in French politics, although he currently was practically banished from Paris. Anne had heard a lot about him, but had never actually met him face to face.

Someone bumped into her – from the corner of her eye she saw a flash of a white mask. She spun around quickly, ready to defend herself, wishing fervently that she had more weapons on hand than the small dagger hidden in her corset. But she was confronted by an old man, whose lofty belly and gouty fingers were a far cry from the menacing power of the masked man she had met upstairs. Even the white mask was markedly different, covering only partially the face and painted with black geometrical designs. Anne brushed the offered apology aside, irritated by her own skittishness. 

Resolutely, she went nearer to the Duke, hoping he would notice her. One didn’t just introduce oneself to the Duke – they had to wait for someone to do it for them. But as she stood near the circle of sycophants, it became increasingly clear that she would have some fierce competition for the Duke’s attention. All the ladies present were doing their utmost to attract Gaston’s favor, and it seemed that one of them, a beautiful fair haired woman, was already half-way into securing a place in his bed. Anne could only hope she wasn’t too late into the game.

As she had calculated, it didn’t take long for the Duke to notice a new, young woman hovering around him. Pleased and interested by the attention, he summoned her to him, asking for an introduction. One of the lords, who Anne had met earlier in the evening with Athos at her side, was eager to curry favor and quickly introduced the Duke of Orléans to the Comtesse de la Fére. After that everything else depended on how well she could flirt with Gaston, how much she could draw his attention away from her competitors to herself. Anne quelled her distaste and went to work. 

She knew all too well what was needed. Men, after all, were all the same. A few breathless compliments, a couple of come-hither looks, a flirtatious smile, and the Duke’s attention was firmly fixed on Anne. The fair haired woman doubled her efforts; it seemed she would not give up easily. Attractively dressed, the Venetian woman was no novice, and she knew all the tricks of the trade, was educated, bold and charming. She could only be one of the lauded and famed courtesans of Venice, at the top of her profession. Anne gave the woman a honeyed smile; there was no way anyone would get the better of her. 

“Excuse me,” Athos’ voice rang loud and clear; he had suddenly appeared beside her. “ _Darling_ , I need an urgent word with you.” Anne tensed, cursing her luck and Athos’ determination to keep harassing her. His calm veneer had cracked and he looked livid, eyes hard and mouth a thin line of displeasure. Before Anne could make up her mind – to resist or to acquiesce? – Athos took a tight hold of her arm. It became clear that he wouldn’t give her a choice, and that he would drag her out of there, even if he would cause a scene. And to all the people surrounding them, he would be completely within his rights to do so; after all, Anne was his wife and his to command. 

Nevertheless, she just _couldn’t_ go quietly. “Can’t you wait a moment _dear_? As you can see, we are in the presence of royalty.” She gave her most dazzling smile to the Duke. Athos’ eyebrows twitched. 

“No,” he growled. He gave a barely-there bow to the Duke, muttered a very insincere, “Excuse us,” and yanked her hand, forcing her to follow him out of the room. Athos was behaving like a jealous husband, but Anne knew there was much more to it than that; he must have thought that she was interfering with the Musketeers’ mission – and he wasn’t exactly wrong. 

Athos dragged her through various rooms, no doubt searching some place that was at least somewhat private. His fingers held her forearm in a bruising grip; the last time he had held her so purposely roughly, he had playacted to deceive her, but this time the force of his anger felt real. A small sliver of unease started to spread in her, but it was tempered with a secret thrill. Anne knew he would never actually hurt her; Athos was not capable of deliberately hurting women. He could kill her, but not hurt her. She was well aware how ironic that was. 

Finally they came upon a small salon, where there were only a handful of people. Even that was too many for the coming confrontation, but the room had a balcony that was empty. Without a pause, Athos opened the balcony doors and pushed her into the brisk night air. He followed behind, drawing the doors as closed as he could get them without locking them both outside. The stone balcony was small, only a yard wide and twice that long. It faced a dark alley; the only light came from the windows of the palazzo. 

Anne felt the stone balustrade hit her back; she had been cornered. Athos loomed before her, his face half in shadow. For a moment, he looked unfamiliar, a stranger in the night. 

“What were you doing?” His voice was hoarse, demanding answers.

“I would think that should have been obvious – even to you.” She refused to cower and instead stepped forward. There was hardly any space left between them.

“What game are you playing?” He had not released her arm; by now his fingers were a welcoming pressure against her skin, reminding her of all the impossible things – and she couldn’t bear his touch any longer.

“Athos…” Somehow her voice came out as a whisper. “You’re hurting my arm.” Immediately, he loosened his hold, his fingers slackening. But Athos didn’t let go. In silent apology, his thumb started to slowly rub the skin of her bare arm, spreading warmth through her whole body. 

“Whatever you are doing – you will not succeed,” he promised firmly. His confidence stoked her anger. 

“I beg to differ,” Anne huffed. “I was doing _very well_ with the Duke, before you decided to drag me here like I was some badly behaved wife in need of his husband’s admonishment.”

“If only,” he spat out, uncharacteristically venomous, “then I would only have to suffer from being a damn fool, cuckold in front of everyone because my wife is such a hussy –”

Smack! Her palm hit his cheek with a force so strong Athos reeled slightly backwards, his fingers finally relinquishing their hold on her arm. For a moment, she was as stunned as he was. But the fire in her – and in him – was not so easily extinguished. “If you dare say that again…” Anne hissed, her whole frame shaking from anger and from something that was not so easily named. 

“What?” Athos smiled humorlessly, closing the small gap between them. He raised his hand and cupped the back of her head, his touch surprisingly gentle.

“I will _gut_ you.” Like they had a will of their own, her treacherous fingers took hold of him by the lapels, making sure he could not retreat from her. Athos, however, didn’t seem to be going anywhere, but forward; soon she was pressed between the balustrade and his firm body. 

“No, you won’t.” His eyes were heated; his voice gravelly. Despite the chilly air, the warmth of his body engulfed hers. She was trapped, unwilling to move. Athos ducked his head and put his lips close to her ear. “ _Hussy_ ,” he whispered, making her shiver. He bit her earlobe lightly; she gasped and turned, slotting their mouths messily together. 

Athos didn’t need more prompting. He opened his mouth and then they were kissing fiercely, both of them trying to take charge of the kiss. Anne moaned, the familiar feel of his mouth, his wicked tongue, making her lightheaded. She had waited for this kiss the whole long, frustrating evening. It seemed he had too, for Athos barely let them take in a sip of air, before his lips were once again on hers, plundering and exploring. He was covering her almost completely: his long legs bracketed hers, his chest pressed against her franticly heaving bust, and his left hand still cupped the back of her head while the right was busy caressing the small of her back. Anne was overwhelmed by his presence. 

“What the _hell_?!” The sudden voice was full of rage. Athos let her abruptly go and turned to face the man that had stepped into the balcony. Still dazed from the kiss, it took Anne a couple of seconds to realize what had happened. One of Athos’ friends – Aramis – had caught them unawares. Judging from his stormy expression, he wasn’t pleased.

The Musketeer had mainly kept out of her way during their stay in Venice, but what little Anne knew of him, the man was usually almost irritatingly genial and polite. Now he was anything but; Aramis’ eyes were blazing with anger and contempt – and not all of it was solely aimed at her. 

“What the hell is the matter with you? Have you lost your mind?” Oh, that was a mistake. Whatever Athos thought about his own actions – and she was a realist enough to know that he already regretted the kiss – he didn’t suffer anyone to take that tone with him. 

Athos’ eyes narrowed. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“The bloody hell it doesn’t!” Aramis looked like he wanted to hit Athos; Anne decided that enough was enough. The balcony doors were open and they had already attracted a swarm of curious onlookers, eager to know the details of the newest scandal. That was well and good, but if they drew the attention of the Duke’s soldiers or Gonzaga’s guards…

“Stop it now,” she hissed to them both, “you are making a scene.” 

The two men faced each other tensely, everything from their postures to their gazes rigid, cutting. It was obvious there was a lot more they wanted to say to each other, but luckily they recognized that Ca’ Gonzaga was hardly the right place for that. 

“Are we ready to leave?” Athos’ voice was so impassive it was almost cold. 

Aramis glanced darkly at Anne, lips pursed. “Not yet.”

“Then let’s just get through the rest of the evening.” Athos offered his arm to Anne; she took it, knowing full well it wasn’t any kind of victory. He just wanted to keep her near him, until the Musketeers – probably Porthos, who was nowhere to be seen – had done what they had come here to do. What she herself had failed so spectacularly to do. Well, there was always another day, another chance. 

As Athos led her from the balcony and through the salon, Anne kept a pleasant smile on her face, meeting every curious, gleeful or shocked gaze with her own, refusing to be mortified or uncomfortable. She even forced herself to look calmly at the Duke’s Captain of the Guard, who was casually standing near the door. His eyes were too sharp, perceiving too much. Anne smiled at him serenely, while she silently cursed her stupid husband and his stupid friends. 

-o-

The search wasn’t going so well – in truth, it wasn’t going _anywhere_. Porthos had searched all the three rooms twice, finding nothing that could be a secret treaty between the Duke of Orléans and the Duke of Savoy and/or the Venetians. No suspicious correspondence, not even one goddamn boring letter. The Duke’s rooms were devoid of any kind of papers and documents; it was unnatural for a gentleman of his station. There had to be a place, where he was keeping them. 

Porthos however had searched every nook and cranny, every drawer and shelf, behind and under all the furniture. He had ransacked the wardrobe, had even examined the Duke’s clothes carefully, making sure nothing was hidden inside the seams. He had searched for secret compartments and hidden places, finding nothing. Porthos was frustrated and disappointed in himself. He hated to fail the others, the mission. The longer he searched, the more uncertain he got; maybe he was missing something? 

He would not give up, not when there was still time left. Although the clock had already struck past midnight, the ball would continue until the first rays of the sun started to rise upon the horizon. Aramis had diverted the attention of the man, who had almost caught them red-handed, somehow drawing him away from the Duke’s rooms, and no one else had since tried to bother him. Porthos could not give up so easily. The rooms were big and full of ornaments and cloths and personal items; he would go through every one of them until he found what he was looking for, or until he was absolutely certain the treaties were not in the Duke’s rooms.

It was a damn shame that it was Porthos, who had gotten the metaphorical short end of the stick. He doubted that neither Athos nor Aramis were having a good time downstairs; they were probably tensely waiting, hating every moment in the lavish ball, not really appreciating the delicious food and divine wine, the various beautiful women trying to get their attention and favor… And all that aside, Porthos was certain that Aramis would have done a better job of searching the rooms. The man was _devious_. He would have probably thought to check dozens of places that Porthos had failed to search. 

Porthos stood in the middle of the Duke’s salon, forcing himself to stay still and survey the room evenly. He had been painstakingly careful to put everything back to its right place, leaving the rooms as he had found them, so as not to rouse suspicion. He was running out of ideas – perhaps he could check the stuffing of the settee. Suddenly the door handle started to turn, and Porthos tensed, readying himself for getting caught, for a fight. He missed his rapier and pistol; the guests had been prohibited from bringing weapons to the ball. He would have to manage with the dagger hidden in his boot and whatever could be found in the room – quickly Porthos grabbed the Duke’s rapier. 

The door handle turned, but then suddenly it was let go; the door remained closed. Porthos dared hardly to breathe. He stepped quietly to the door, trying to hear if someone was still in the corridor. He could discern two voices; a man and a woman were talking just outside the door. They were speaking in Latin, so to his annoyance, he didn’t know what they were saying. But he did recognize one of the voices: it was Milady’s.

What was she doing upstairs? Was she trying to get into the Duke’s rooms? How was she trying to screw up their mission?

Soon the voices however stopped and no one came to the room. Porthos stood just beside the door, rapier in hand, waiting. After a few minutes he came to the conclusion, that whatever Milady wanted to do in the fourth-floor, she was gone from the immediate vicinity of the Duke’s suite. Porthos couldn’t waste time to think about her actions – he had to finish the search. 

The settee was lined tightly with a gold-green cloth; inside of it was some kind of stuffing, probably straw. Porthos examined the seams of the cloth, but didn’t see any obvious spot, where the cloth had been opened and sewn close again. He patted the stuffing, trying to find if there were inconsistencies in its texture, any lumps or hollows. There didn’t appear to be any, and he was loath to just cut the cloth open at random; he would never get it back to the way it was. But maybe there was something inside the bed’s mattress –

Quickly Porthos moved to the bedroom and took a closer look at the huge four-poster bed. He had already looked inside the pillowcases and linen, had checked under the mattress, but there was still the mattress itself. He stripped the linen from the bed and examined the big mattress throughout. After exhaustive search he had to finally give up: there was nothing. Either the Duke was very cunning and had hidden the treaties somewhere no one would thought to look or then the man was so paranoid he carried them with him at all times.

He made the bed impatiently, wanting to get out of the rooms. He had already wasted too much time – perhaps he could still enjoy the ball, before it was time to leave. At the very least he needed a strong drink.

A sudden thump from the salon froze Porthos; various sounds followed, a woman giggled. Someone had come inside the suite. Quickly Porthos surveyed the bed – it looked like it hadn’t been touched. A man and a woman were laughing and talking, their voices coming nearer. Porthos had perhaps only seconds to hide. 

Just in time, Porthos darted into the dressing room, drawing the door shut. He could only hope that the couple would have no reason to come there, for he had no believable excuse ready for why he was hiding in the Duke’s dressing room. The voices came closer; the pair was now inside the bedroom. From a small gap between the door hinge and the wall, Porthos saw some of what was happening in the other room; the sounds told the rest of the tale. 

Porthos rested his head against the wall, the situation’s absurdity wholly apparent to him. He was trapped inside a dressing room, forced to listen as the Duke of Orléans and his companion were having very loud, very vigorous sex. It might have been entertaining, if it wasn’t so damn inconvenient.

The Duke’s stamina proved to be quite good; it took some time before the couple had finished their coitus. Expectantly, Porthos rose from the floor, where he had sat the last hour, hoping that the pair would either leave or go to sleep, giving him an opportunity to creep out of the suite. He cursed again the tiny window of the dressing room – he wouldn’t fit into it, not even if he was forty pounds lighter. 

Through the small gap he watched the couple; the Duke was sprawled on the bed, grinning wildly at the young woman, who had stood up. She was still wearing her petticoat and corset, her golden hair messy, cheeks pink with exertion. She was one of the most beautiful women Porthos had ever seen. 

“Come back _chéri_ ,” the Duke demanded, “I’m not finished with you yet.” Porthos’ heart sank. His patience would not last much more waiting in the small, stuffy room. 

“And I’m not finished with _you_ ,” the woman laughed, “but I think some refreshments are needed first.” She sauntered from the bedroom and soon came back with two glasses of wine. The Duke took his drink eagerly and drank it with one gulp. The woman sipped hers, smiling. 

Barely a minute passed and the Duke suddenly became limp and drowsy. Another minute and the man was sound asleep. Porthos tensed, for the Duke hadn’t just naturally fallen asleep; the woman must have drugged him. Did she want him harm? Should he burst into the bedroom and defend the heir to the French throne? But the Duke seemed to be breathing just fine and the woman didn’t appear to have any interest in him anymore. Instead, she started to go through the room methodically, opening drawers and searching through the clothes the Duke had haphazardly thrown on the floor. 

Porthos could hardly believe it – what were the chances of someone coming to search the Duke’s rooms, while he was there doing the same? His luck had run out; it was clear the woman would also search the dressing room. He would have no place to hide from her. Well, as the confrontation was inevitable, he could at least save her some trouble and get out of his hiding place sooner rather than later. 

Without further thought, Porthos opened the door and grinned impishly. “Hey, so…it’s nice to meet you.” The woman gave a start and pivoted towards him, surprise and alarm clear on her face. Porthos looked at the still slumbering Duke meaningfully, suggesting hopefully, “So, if we can just forget this ever happened, yeah? I didn’t see you, you didn’t see me?”

The woman glowered at him with pursed up lips. Porthos sighed; when did things ever go as planned?


	12. Updates

_They also serve who only stand and wait._

\- John Milton (1608–1674) -

 

-o-

_The Second of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The evening dragged on and changed finally into a dark night. D’Artagnan waited impatiently until most of the household were getting their much needed sleep, before they had to rise again to be ready to serve, when their master and mistress returned from the ball. No one saw him creep down the stairs to the guest bedroom, nor were they there to observe him, when he searched for any proof that Milady was acting against them or was somehow involved in the Duke’s plans. He was certain that she was up to no good – when was she ever not? It had been many months since, but it still galled him to think how she had played with him. How willingly he had fallen under her spell, flattered that such a woman could find him interesting. Of course, it was not him that had interested her, but the company he kept. Were it not for him falling in love with Constance, he might have done more bad choices concerning Milady de Winter than he had ended up doing. 

Despite d’Artagnan’s hope to the contrary, it didn’t take long to search the guest bedroom and ascertain that Athos had been right; there was nothing suspicious to be found. If there was something that revealed Milady’s plans, she was too cunning to leave it in a room, where anyone could find it. Frustrated, he headed back to the small room he shared with one of Monteverdi’s valets, knowing he had to wait at least a couple of hours, before the others returned from the party and he got to know if they had succeeded in their task or not. It was doubtful that he could get any sleep until the valet standing guard alerted the household that the Monterverdis and their guests were arriving, but it would be better to try to get some rest than to roam aimlessly around the house. 

“Ugh – stop.” The muffled shout made d’Artagnan halt; there was no one in the corridor with him, but the door to Elena Monteverdi’s sitting room was half open. The hairs on the back of his neck rose and instinctively he reached for the weapon he did not carry – d’Artagnan knew to trust his senses, when they told him something was wrong.

“I said stop!” The distressed voice rose in volume, and d’Artagnan strode to the door, wrenching it wholly open. 

The sitting room was shadowy, the only light coming from the lit candelabra on the table. D’Artagnan however had no trouble of discerning what was happening: Louise had been cornered against the settee by a man and was trying her hardest to avoid the attention of his greedy lips and hands. 

With no hesitation, d’Artagnan tore the impudent man away from Louise, letting him crash against the wall. “She told you to _stop_.” He hovered menacingly above the scrawny servant; he had seen the man a few times in the kitchens, always fetching and carrying something. The man cowered on the ground, the anger on d’Artagnan’s face a universal language the servant couldn’t claim to not understand.

Still furious, d’Artagnan lifted the man up from his lapels, pressing him none too gently against the wall. “If you ever try to do this again, I’ll find you – do you understand?” The servant seemed to get the gist of his speech and nodded frantically, saying something hurriedly in Venetian. The minute d’Artagnan let go of him, the man scampered out of the room.

Louise was smoothing down her dress, the movement of her hands jerky. Her eyes lowered, she seemed distressed and embarrassed. D’Artagnan took a careful step towards her, but left plenty of room between them. 

“Are you alright?”

“I could have handled it,” Louise claimed hotly, “I was just about to…to scratch his eyes out. He would have been sorry for touching me.”

“I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

Louise raised her eyes and watched him with suspicion, as if she was searching for signs of mockery in his tone and face. She didn’t find any, for d’Artagnan was sincere; he was certain she could hold her own. That however, didn’t mean that she had to, not when he was there to help. 

“I could have,” she repeated, “I have done so before. But – but even so, thank you.” Louise gave him a small, hesitant smile.

“I’m just glad I was here to help,” he said and then thought to explain, “It seems stupid to try to sleep, when in just a few hours we have to be up again. I tried to occupy myself with some menial tasks, but…”

“I know,” Louise was quick to agree, “I tried to find Milady’s earring, although it’s next to impossible in this light.” She shrugged her shoulders, and d’Artagnan was glad to see she looked better, much more like her unflappable self. 

“You must have noticed that I’m not a very good valet,” he confessed. Louise snorted, confirming his words. “I grew up in a farm and I was to be a farmer, like my father. But…well, he died and I lost the farm. I had to seek other work. I’m still not sure how I ended up as a valet to a Comte, but here I am.” D’Artagnan didn’t know why he was telling her all of that, for it had nothing to do with alleviating her suspicions. He found that he wanted to tell her – to make her somehow understand his position. It was doomed really, for he could never tell her the whole truth. 

“I – I understand,” Louise sounded hesitant, like she was unsure of the words she was speaking. “I didn’t set out to be a maid either, but here _I am_. You’ll learn in time, I am sure of it.” She gave him a teasing smile. “After all, you’re just plainly terrible, not irredeemably horrible.” 

D’Artagnan smiled wryly; she was undoubtedly right. If he had been really Comte de la Fére’s valet, he wasn’t sure his friend’s patience would have lasted this long without sacking him. 

Louise took the candelabra and walked past him, stopping just before the door. “Goodnight – or the next few hours anyway. And d’Artagnan – thank you again, truly.” Then she slipped out of the room, leaving him alone in the dark. 

For a moment, d’Artagnan just stood there amid the darkness, in a middle of a strange room, in a foreign country. A strong wave of emotions, all tangled together, – longing, sadness, uncertainty –, threatened to suddenly overwhelm him. He fiercely missed Constance and her steady presence in his life. He was homesick for the familiar streets of Paris, for his place as a Musketeer, for the unwavering support of his friends and their good-humored jests. He was tired of playing the role of a servant, of being constantly on the fringes, waiting for others to act. 

It was only temporary, he reminded himself. As soon as the mission was over, everything would go back to the way it had been – although he would still be separated from Constance. There was no easy fix for that.

Not letting himself indulge in the homesickness for long, d’Artagnan went upstairs, bypassing his own room and going instead to the room that had been given to Aramis and Porthos. The minute the others came back, they would convene there and share the latest updates to their mission. Not bothering to light a candle, d’Artagnan lay on top of one of the beds, closing his eyes. The others could wake him up; he was tired of staring at the walls. 

Later, he could not say how long he had slept or if he had slept at all; it seemed just a moment had gone by, when he next opened his eyes to a room half-full with faint light. Drowsily, d’Artagnan sat up, his eagerness quickly returning. 

“You’ll never believe what happened,” Porthos sounded enthused. He plopped down on the other bed fully dressed, including the mask, which still covered half his face. Whereas Aramis had already taken off his own mask and was violently yanking the fastenings of his doublet open, his expression dark. It seemed at odds with Porthos’ convivial mood, so d’Artagnan looked at Athos, trying to gauge the success of their mission from his face. But as was all too common lately, the man was coldly expressionless, revealing nothing.

“Did you get the treaties?” D’Artagnan asked hopefully, already calculating how long it would take to arrest the Duke and travel back to Paris. 

“No,” Porthos admitted, little sheepishly, “but I took those rooms apart – there was nothing there.”

“They must have been hidden somewhere else then, or the Duke must be carrying them with him at all times,” Athos mused, not showing any signs of the disappointment that was currently gripping d’Artagnan. 

“Yeah, well I don’t think he is carrying them – at least he wasn’t tonight,” Porthos grinned impishly, clearly holding in something interesting that had happened. 

“You managed to search _him_?” Athos sounded incredulous. 

“Not exactly.” 

“Out with it already!” D’Artagnan demanded, too impatient for lengthened suspense. They all looked at Porthos inquiringly, even Aramis, who so far had been nursing his bad mood in silence. 

“I was not the only one searching the rooms,” Porthos told, and although his tone was light, there was an undercurrent of seriousness beneath it. “I had to hide in a dressing room of all places, when the Duke suddenly burst in with a woman. After they had their… _fun_ , the woman drugged him and started to search the place. She also went through the clothes the Duke had been wearing, finding nothing.”

“Who was she?” Aramis sounded angry; he had thrown his doublet and boots to the floor and was now wiping his brow with a wet cloth. D’Artagnan was reminded how his friend had been a month ago and wondered what had pushed him back to that dark place. 

“I confronted her – I really had no choice -,” Porthos crossed his hands beneath his head, relaxed despite this newest threat to their mission, “and she was graceful enough to introduce herself as Signora Mancini.” The amusement in Porthos’ tone revealed that the scene had hardly been as civilized as he described. 

“Laura Mancini.” Athos looked thoughtful, scratching his beard absent-mindedly. “Signore Monteverdi has mentioned her several times – apparently she is one of the most successful courtesans, entertaining various important Venetians.”

“And a spy too,” d’Artagnan surmised. It didn’t surprise him in the least. 

“Of course, who here isn’t?” Athos asked wryly. “The more important question is: who is her employer?”

“I might be able to find out,” Porthos yawned and stretched his legs, still not bothering to remove his boots. “We have a kind of silent deal – she won’t expose me to the Duke and I will not mention her drugging activities. And she invited me to her house tomorrow – today that is, to dinner.”

“You think it wise to go? No doubt she has more reason to have you there than a hankering for your stellar company.” Aramis had given up his cursory washing and was leaning against the wall, his stance tense and tone skeptical.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that she intends to squeeze every bit of information out of me that she can, but two can play that game.”

“Alright, it’s worth it to know who else wants the treaties and why,” Athos agreed. 

“About that…” Porthos sounded suddenly uncharacteristically hesitant, “during my search someone else tried to come to the room – I heard Milady’s voice in the corridor. She was talking to someone, but I don’t know what she said or what she was doing there, or even if it was her that tried to open the door.”

Athos’ lips thinned, but otherwise his expression remained stony. D’Artagnan didn’t know if he should feel vindicated or disappointed. On the one hand, what Porthos told was finally some proof that Milady was involved somehow in the plot, but on the other hand, because of Athos, he had hoped that this time she was what she claimed to be – just a casual bystander. 

“I knew it,” Aramis hissed, looking strangely satisfied. “This is untenable! We have to deal with her, the sooner the better, before she destroys the whole mission.”

“I’ll manage it,” Athos said tersely.

“Will you really?” Aramis challenged, not even bothering to mask his biting anger. D’Artagnan felt that once again he was missing something important between his two friends, something that would explain their antagonist behavior towards each other. Something had happened to cause this intolerable rift, but he wasn’t privy to it. Once again, he was left blundering and guessing in the dark. 

“I said I _will_ ,” Athos growled out, eyes hard. 

“Oh…did something else happen, with her?” Porthos inquired gingerly. Obviously he too didn’t know what had happened between Athos and Aramis, but it couldn’t alleviate d’Artagnan’s frustration and anger at being left out. He knew the two would not give up their secrets easily. 

“Nothing – nothing important anyway.” Athos didn’t look them in the eye, but kept his gaze resolutely on the opposite wall. 

“ _Nothing_ ,” Aramis laughed darkly, “that’s right.” But he didn’t elaborate, falling silent instead, leaving d’Artagnan and Porthos guessing and wondering if it would be worth it to press the point. 

“One more thing,” Athos said, seemingly calm again, “one of the Inquisitors, Antonio Gabrieli, sought me out. He clearly suspects, or knows, something.”

“Great,” Porthos sighed, sounding tired. D’Artagnan agreed – the last thing they needed was more obstacles.

“Gabrieli has been biding his time, but we can’t count on him to not act soon – let’s finish this mission as quickly as possible.” Athos’ voice had that commanding, steely tone, which made men follow him instinctively to the bloodiest battlefield. “Porthos, find out everything you can from Laura Mancini. Aramis, you’ll continue to follow the Duke. I’ll get to the bottom of Milady’s plans.”

“What about me?” D’Artagnan was ready for something more dangerous than making sure that Athos’ shirts were properly pressed. 

“Just…do what you have been doing, with the maid.” It sounded like a dismissal, so d’Artagnan nodded tightly and got out of the room. Although the break of dawn was fast approaching, he strode to his room and lay down. He thought uncharitably that Athos would just have to manage to get to his own bed – or really, the hard settee where he had been sleeping – without any help from his valet. 

-o-

The ball finally came to its inevitable end as the sun rose, and the last of the guests were safely escorted or carried to their waiting gondolas. For the many servants at their service during the party, it didn’t mean rest but the hurried cleaning of the remnants of the ball. The leftovers went into hungry mouths, but decorations needed to be taken down, the rooms had to be aired, and the spilled wine, the wax from burned-out candles, and stains of vomit had to be scrubbed away. 

The Gonzagas had retired to their rooms hours ago, as had the Duke. Laura Mancini, the young courtesan, who had been the Duke’s companion for the night, had left the palazzo some time ago, leaving the heir to the French throne to sleep off his drunkenness alone. His guaranteed hangover was not something that Claude Durand looked forward to, but it was unavoidable. The Captain of the Guard washed up, ate some breakfast and checked his men, giving most of them a stern telling off for being too lax and negligent the night before. But all of that didn’t take up but a few hours, and Durand knew the hour was still far too early to wake up the Duke. 

Once again, he debated the urgency of his business against the mood of his employer, and decided to wait a little longer. It wasn’t as if he could do anything presently. He was exhausted, but didn’t dare to sleep, and although rest was always appreciated, as a soldier he had gotten used to going long stretches of time without it. But Durand let himself to withdraw to the privacy of his room, where he sat down, taking off his boots. Somehow just merely standing the whole night in those magnificent rooms amid the rich and influential had been more exhausting than fighting in a bloody battle in some frozen field. 

He took one of the boots to his lap and with practiced hands opened the inner seam inside the leather boot. Two letters fit snugly inside the small hidden space, so much so that one could have easily forgotten them there, if they had been less than what they were. But their presence had been weighing the Captain the whole evening and he couldn’t be gladder to relinquish them to their owner, although it had been his own idea to carry them. He was still a little surprised that the Duke had trusted the treaties to him, but even Gaston knew it wasn’t a good idea for him to keep them in the middle of a masked ball. 

The early morning slowly turned into forenoon, and Durand estimated it was finally suitable time to wake the Duke of Orléans. He knocked on the suite’s door, but didn’t wait for the answer; instead he opened the door and strode inside. The Duke’s valet was in the salon, arranging the breakfast trade laden with delicacies on the table. The slight man looked harassed.

“He’s awake then?” 

“His Highness woke a moment ago; he is still in bed,” the valet answered monotonously. The man did not try to stop Durand, when he went to the bedroom door; he was used to the Captain taking liberties that were not always courteous or prudent.

Durand rapped on the door and this time waited until he heard an impatient “What?” He only needed to disclose his identity and he was commanded inside the room. 

“Ah, Durand, too bright and early as usual.” The Duke was still in bed, clad only in his nightshirt. “Bloody valet woke me up with his clanging and banging. As if I could eat anything!” Gaston looked ashen and nauseous, clearly nursing a strong hangover. 

Durand decided it was best to get his business quickly over with. He took the letters from his pocket and handed them to the Duke, who examined carefully that the treaties were still sealed. “The Council wants to go over some details, but otherwise everything is in the bag,” the Duke said, sounding satisfied.

“Any difficulties?” Durand tried to remember the different Council members he had met and who might pose trouble for the Duke. 

“No, nothing I can’t handle.” The Duke smiled slightly as he held the letters in his hands. “And anyway, whatever happens, they can’t go back now – I have their signatures. I’ll have dinner with the Council tonight and we’ll close the deal.” He put down the treaties almost reluctantly. “With some luck, we can be on our way to France in a couple of days. Although I wouldn’t mind staying…the women and wine here are excellent – except that bloody slop that I drank last night, ugh, my head feels like it’s being hammered and squeezed at the same time.”

Durand didn’t bother to commiserate; he wasn’t paid to be a nursemaid but an efficient Captain of the Guard. Therefore it pained him to reveal that he might have been less than competent. “There is something that might be a problem.”

“What now?” The Duke sighed, as if the Captain was in the habit of bringing him nothing but news of trouble. 

“Last night, I found a man near your rooms. He was drunk – or at least at the time I took him as being drunk. But later I saw him exchange heated words with some of the people he had come with and he was remarkably sober then. I made some inquiries – he is French, goes by the name of Aramis, and he came with the Comte de la Fére. They are staying with Giovanni Monteverdi.”

“I never met the man,” the Duke of Orléans said, knitting his brows, “although I did meet the Comtesse de la Fére – quite a lovely woman. But I hadn’t heard of her or her husband before yesterday. You think they are acting against me?”

“Perhaps…but I have no evidence of that,” Durand chose his words carefully, “but this man, Aramis – I don’t recognize his name, but I do know his face. Just before they left, he took off his mask. It was some years ago, but I am certain I have seen him before.”

“And?” The Duke was looking at him intently, the hangover pushed aside for the moment. 

“When I saw him, he was a Musketeer.”

“You think he still is?” Gaston clenched the edge of the sheet in his fist, eyes hard. They both knew what it meant, if the man was still a Musketeer – the King knew of the plot. 

“He might have resigned or been sacked. But it’s very suspicious that he was near your rooms, trying to play drunk.” Durand grimaced and berated himself once more; he should have noticed that the man was acting, should have taken him somewhere private for questioning.

The Duke rose from the bed and went straight to the side table, filling a glass with wine that had been left in a carafe – presumably the slop he had earlier berated. He drank it with one gulp and turned to Durand, lips pursed. “I want you to find out just who that man is.” 

“And if he is a Musketeer?”

The Duke smirked mirthlessly and filled his glass again to the brim. “Find out what he knows – and kill him.”

Durand gave a small bow and exited the room wordlessly, his orders crystal clear.


	13. Divided

_Anger, when it is long in coming, is the stronger when it comes, and the longer kept._

\- Francis Quarles (1592–1644) -

-o-

_The Second of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The day after the ball was bleak, filled with damp, thick fog. The sun had risen, only to be covered by white mist, which plunged the city into dimness, prompting the citizens to light torches and candles in the middle of the day. It was a day best spent indoors, and those who could, did. The revelers of the night before slept long and waking up took one look outside and decided to rest the afternoon and evening, curing their hangovers or overwrought minds. The servants and workers had no such choice and went about their business as usual, avoiding going to chilly outside air if they could. 

The Monteverdis and their guests rose late, and had their breakfast in place of the luncheon, listless and tired from the ball. No one said much of anything, opting to eat in silence. D’Artagnan knew that the fraught atmosphere between his friends was caused by more than an overabundance of drink. Like on their way to Venice, Aramis and Athos avoided making any kind of contact, their eyes skirting away from each other. Porthos focused on eating, and Milady acted like all the Musketeers were mere air. Having already eaten in the kitchen, d’Artagnan stood behind Athos’ chair, heavy and tired, trying not to fidget. There was nothing duller than watching others eat. Finally the awkward breakfast was over and people headed for their own rooms, their minds on their own tasks and pastimes. 

Aramis slipped silently out of the palazzo, no doubt heading for Ca’ Gonzaga; he was to resume their observation of the Duke. Porthos vanished into his room, having decided to take a nap – or more likely to brood about the others’ behavior in peace – before the time came for him to meet Laura Mancini. Athos followed Milady into their room, and d’Artagnan knew he wasn’t welcome there anytime soon. 

Irritated, d’Artagnan slumped against the wall, having nothing to do. He could perhaps seek out Louise, but she had her own tasks to perform and would not be pleased if he interrupted her. Athos didn’t need his help and Porthos was to go alone to pry information out of the courtesan. D’Artagnan sighed – he should have gone with Aramis. Waiting and following in a dank air would hardly be pleasant, but it would be better than being cooped up in the palazzo, itching for action. Perhaps he could still catch up with Aramis.

“D’Artagnan!” Louise hurried down the corridor, cheeks charmingly red from exertion and excitement. He pushed himself away from the wall, straightening up. He didn’t want to look lazy or listless in front of her.

Louise came to a stop near him, a shy smile on her face. “I wondered…have you anything to do?”

“I can promise you I have _nothing_ to do.” D’Artagnan couldn’t help but smile back. The young maid had already managed to raise his spirits. 

“Good!” Louise blurted and then laughed at herself. “I mean – Milady has given me the day off. Would you come to explore the city with me? I know the weather is awful, but this might be my only chance. I would love to see the city, and well, I would like if you were with me. Just as friends, of course.”

“Of course.” He gave a low bow. “Whatever _Mademoiselle_ decrees.” Despite the weather, he was exited to go outside, and not least because of the company. Louise was smart, spirited and behind a tough mask there was a sensitive and kind girl. She reminded him of Constance. 

“Oh, stop it!” She swatted him playfully with her small hand. He grinned. 

“Let’s go now,” he said eagerly, “just let me get something from my room, then I’m ready to go.”

“Alright.” Louise smiled, her eyes shining from excitement. “I’ll wait for you at the backdoor.”

“I won’t be long!” D’Artagnan bounded up the main stairs, not caring about the disapproving looks he got from servants. He strode quickly to Aramis’ and Porthos’ bedroom, where he kept the things he didn’t want his roommate’s curious eyes to see: his weapons and his small bag of coins. 

Porthos was resting on the bed, but opened his eyes, when d’Artagnan dashed inside. “What’s the hurry?” he muttered, as d’Artagnan tugged the wardrobe open and pulled his things outside. 

“I’m going to see the city with Louise,” d’Artagnan explained, tying the sword belt around him securely and putting his weapons to their right places. He couldn’t carry weapons inside the palazzo, but even a valet could be armed, when walking outside. In Venice, everyone had a right to defend themselves. 

“Oh, I see.” Porthos winked, a slow, knowing smile spreading onto his face. “Just remember – don’t be cheap. There’s nothing women hate more than a stingy man.”

“You’re one to talk,” d’Artagnan snorted, but it was gentled by the smile on his face. He snatched his coin pouch, saluted his friend and pounded downstairs. It would be a good day. 

-o-

The fog curled around the buildings and filled the canals, swathed everything in a wet grey-white curtain. The streets were almost empty, the lack of people and sounds adding to the desolate air hanging above the city. Athos shivered with cold, his short cloak insufficient protection against the raw dampness of the weather. Milady had slipped outside, when their hosts had been resting, still recovering from the night before. She had left by the backdoor, walking the narrow lanes and passageways of Venice with sure feet. He had followed her outside and had carefully tailed her through the various _campi_ towards the _Ponte di Rialto_ , the only bridge across the Grand Canal. 

The weather made following her both easy and difficult. The fog hampered the sight; Athos couldn’t see more than a few yards ahead. It took all his skill to trail the woman and not to lose her amid the mazelike streets. At the same time it made him nearly invisible; he doubted that he could be easily noticed by his quarry. He wondered where she was heading. To meet with her coconspirator? Whatever her destination, he would not let her out of his sight. Not this time.

Athos did not like to think about the ball, about all the failures of that cursed night. His mind however, circled back there, to the heated ballroom, to the small balcony, intent on torturing him. Athos knew he had been a fool; letting memories of the distant past and Anne’s – _Milady’s_ enticing presence influence his actions. The whole night had conspired against him, slowly crumbling his grip on the stony coldness that had been his defense for so long. She had managed to draw the anger, the want, the longing out of him. 

But no more. He couldn’t be drawn to that deadly spiral of darkness again. He was done with that dance.

He pushed resolutely the thoughts about the warmth of her skin, the softness of her lips, away from his mind, concentrating on Aramis instead. His friend’s ire and disgust upon seeing him kissing their old adversary was a serious accusation. Whatever patching up they had done on the road to Venice, Athos feared the situation between them was even more difficult and hostile than before. He could understand that Aramis wasn’t pleased with what he had seen, but the strength of his animosity had taken Athos by surprise. It was not the way of his friend to hold such anger – certainly not towards any of his Musketeer companions. 

The big stone bridge loomed suddenly straight ahead, emerging from the shroud of mist like a great monolith. Milady’s form, draped in a dark cloak, was already half-way up the stairs that led to the central _portico_ of the bridge. Athos darted after her, the sound of his steps muffled by the thick fog. There were a few people on the bridge, hurrying along with their loads of parcels and baskets, but it was a remarkable change to how things usually were, when the central bridge of Venice was swarming with people from all sides of life. Now the bridge seemed as deserted as the rest of the city, the rows of shops on either side of the portico empty, most of their shutters closed. In the middle of the Rialto Bridge opened up a view of the _Canal Grande_ , but as everything else, the wide canal was covered with the white mist; only a flash of yellow light, moving slowly, revealed that someone was traveling on the water below.

Athos hurried down the steps to the other side of the bridge, coming to a sudden halt at the bottom of the stone stairs. A street led straight ahead, another vanished into the fog on his right, and a walkway followed the canal to the left. There was no sign of a dark cloak in any direction, no sign of anyone at all. Athos forced himself to stand still and listen, trying to hear the sound of footsteps or boats or anything. All was quiet. 

He pushed aside the frustration and concentrated on calculating where she had probably gone. He absolutely _refused_ to let her get away – he would find her, even if he had to search every alley, canal and house in Venice.

-o-

Porthos knew he was going to arrive early to the dinner he had been invited, but he couldn’t stay indoors any longer. He had brooded enough about the baffling antagonism between Aramis and Athos, had imagined dozens of ways how to make them see sense – most of them had been rather violent – and he had made up his mind. Tonight, he would pry everything out of Aramis, not spending another night watching how the other man deflected his questions before sinking stubbornly into silent depression. Porthos had been patient enough; he had a right to know what ailed his friend – both of them. Not just because they were supposed to trust each other, but because they were an effective unit that was getting less effective every moment that this bickering and secrecy continued. 

Although the chilliness in the air tried to claw into his bones, Porthos appreciated the cold, for it cleared his stuffy mind. He hadn’t slept much since coming back from the ball; the strained atmosphere between his two friends and their obstinate refusal to talk about it had kept him awake, tossing and turning. If he was honest, he was glad to spend the evening away from Ca’ Monteverdi and the other Musketeers. It certainly helped that the woman he was going to meet was beautiful, intriguing and probably deadly – in other words, perfect distraction from his own problems. 

Porthos grinned as he thought about their encounter the night before. He had certainly managed to take the courtesan by surprise, but she had recovered commendably. Laura Mancini had first been quite ready to turn him in, willing to scream the whole palazzo down to alarm the guards. Luckily she had quickly changed tactics, when it had come apparent that Porthos was just as willing to expose to all and sundry what she had been doing. As the Duke of Orléans had still been heavily drugged, it wouldn’t have been hard to prove that Signora Mancini had done more than entertained him. 

They had come to a reluctant truce: neither would expose the other, although it had been clear that they both sought the same thing. Alerting the guards would have only hindered both their tasks, and so they had come to a silent agreement that they would rather deal with each other than the Duke’s soldiers. Even so, it had surprised Porthos, when the woman had introduced herself overly politely, an impish smile on her lips, and with the next breath had invited him to dinner, to discuss their “mutual interests”. Porthos could appreciate a woman, who took risks and was quick-witted, not to mention gorgeous. She made him curious and keyed up. Actually, the courtesan reminded him of Milady, but he would _not_ think of that. 

The gondola glided silently through the thick fog, the surrounding city nearly invisible around them. Only flashes of grey stone hinted at their surroundings. Porthos was amazed that the gondolier could navigate in the nearly impenetrable mist, knowing when to turn into a right canal and when to dodge the boats that suddenly emerged right in front of them. It made him nervous, to be in the mercy of a stranger’s skill to steer a boat, but walking had been out of the question. Porthos would never have found Laura Mancini’s house by himself – not in this weather.

He had no idea in which canal, let alone in which area of the city, they were when the gondola came to a slow halt and thumbed against a pier. A grey three-story house rose from the mist, looking isolated and lonely, although Porthos knew there had to be houses all around it; in Venice, all possible space was carefully put to good use. He hopped on to the wooden pier that was slippery from the heavy dampness, gesturing for the boatman not to wait for him. The house wasn’t as grand as the great palaces lining the Grand Canal, but it had a nice façade, decorated with stone balusters, and a heavy oak door with a familiar lion headed knocker, all of which revealed that the owner was comfortably well-off.

Porthos brushed his beard, touched the hilt of his rapier and straightened up to his full height. He knew he cut an imposing figure and planned to use it – and everything else he had – to get an advantage over the courtesan. Knocking on the door, his lips drew into a rakish smile. It was time to see who would charm whom. 

-o-

The anger was still simmering beneath his skin, when Aramis left Ca’ Monteverdi. In the coldness of the air, it warmed his blood and bones, quickening his heart. It kept him company the whole miserable day, from Ca’ Gonzaga through the familiar streets to Piazza San Marco, where he settled to wait for the Duke, who once again vanished inside the Doge’s Palace. 

The large square was eerily empty, only a few people dashing across it from time to time. Lining the long sides of _La Piazza_ were the arcades of the _Procuratie Vecchie_ , buildings that contained the offices of the high officers of state. A wretched old vendor stood shivering beneath one of the arcades, a cart half-full with wooden barrels next to him. There were no Carnival amusements anywhere; all the other performers, vendors and swindlers had wisely decided it would have been pointless to try to find customers in the middle of the frigid fog. Aramis wondered about the old man; maybe he hadn’t any choice but to be outdoors, any chance of a paying customer, however remote, one he had to take. 

In the eastern end of the piazza stood the Doge’s personal chapel, the great church of St Mark's Basilica. Standing close to it was the famous bell tower, _Campanile di San Marco_. Its rust red bricks rose high up in the air, the top vanishing into mist. In front of the church were three large mast-like flagpoles that each carried the Venetian flag. The winged golden lion on a red surface usually flew proudly in the wind, the symbol of Venice’s power and wealth. Now the flags were hardly visible. 

Aramis knew the wait for the Duke would probably be long and most definitely uncomfortable. In a deserted piazza, he was easily noticeable; he could only hope that the fog would cover him as it covered everything else. He bought a flagon of wine from the old man and settled in his usual spot, under the arcade of the Doge’s Palace. The marble columns were acting as a protection against the biting wind that was steadily increasing. It howled from across the lagoon, shifting and pushing the mist around. He could hear the flagpoles banging in the wind. 

He drank the wine slowly, wanting it to last the evening. The Duke would probably had dinner in the Doge’s Palace and it could take hours; as they could afford it, the rich usually spent an absurd amount of time eating and drinking. Aramis didn’t have anything eatable with him, and his stomach rolled with the mere thought of food. He had no appetite. His anger had burned it away.

With almost detached curiousness, he examined the churning mass of animosity, rage and bitterness that had taken hold of him so suddenly and swiftly the night before. Aramis knew the dark feelings had not appeared out of nothing; they had been inside of him all along. He had thought he had mastered them, that he had pushed them aside. But he was hardly in control of anything anymore – certainly not the mission, or what happened to those he cared about. Still, the strength and rancor of his feelings had taken him by surprise and he knew he had unsettled his friends, some of whom didn’t deserve it. 

He could admit that his reaction had perhaps been out of proportion. Athos was a grown man; if he wanted to kiss the witch that had brought so much misery into his life, it was his choice. The kiss itself didn’t concern Aramis, but the obvious ease and intensity with which the pair had once again fallen into each other’s lives did. It hadn’t even been a week, and Milady already had a strong grip of Athos; his friend maybe couldn’t or didn’t want to acknowledge it, but Aramis had seen how Athos looked at her, when he thought no one noticed. There was a helpless hunger in his gaze, desperation of a drowning man, who glimpses a distant shore just before everything is finished. Athos was a fool, if he thought he could escape this encounter with his former wife without any further scars and haunted dreams. She would disappoint Athos again, he was certain of that, leaving Aramis once again to try to put the remaining pieces of his friend together.

The flagon of wine was almost empty; Aramis drank the last drops and let it drop to the ground with a heavy, echoing thud. Suddenly the hate for her burned so bright, he had the mad thought that he should just kill her; take his rapier and plunge it into Milady’s stomach. Surely Athos would forgive and forget it, as he had already forgiven and forgotten so much of what _she_ had done. Aramis grimaced. He knew he was being unfair towards his friend, but Athos deserved it. Didn’t it matter to him, that she had caused it all? Had sent those men to kill them, to hound them into that convent, where he had lost one love and had begun to lose another? 

A slight sound echoed in the arcade and Aramis stiffened, his thoughts racing to catch up with his other senses. But it was already too late; dark forms plunged from the gloomy mist, surrounding him. Aramis drew his rapier, his unloaded pistol useless. The clang of steel followed his movement as the Duke’s soldiers raised their own swords. Aramis didn’t wait for their next move, but rushed towards the men on his right, hoping that his quick attack would surprise the soldiers and let him fight a way out of the trap. The first man was taken unawares, his reaction to Aramis’ movements a bit too slow. As he started to fall to the ground, the Musketeer had already withdrawn his sword from the man’s gut, moving to engage the next soldier. 

Aramis slashed and parried, dashed and dodged. Men fell around him, but still, the circle surrounding him tightened. He fought with a grim, single-minded focus, knowing he was unlikely to win the battle. As good a fighter as he was, they were too many and he was just one. It was just a matter of time before he would be overwhelmed. He kicked one man into a stomach, cut another across the arm. A sharp pain erupted at his side, but Aramis ignored it. The rush of violence, the nearness of death pushed everything but the most necessary thoughts away. World narrowed into a single sequence of familiar movements. 

He already knew what awaited him; the soldiers were reluctant to kill him, trying to disarm him instead. They wanted to take him alive. It would be perhaps prudent to give up, so he could stay relatively unharmed. That way, he would have a better chance of escaping later. But everything in Aramis recoiled against surrender. He didn’t want to give any quarter; he would kill and wound as many of them as he could. The heat of his anger had hardened into cold steel. It felt good to act, to fight, to hurt. 

It felt good to be _alive_ again.


	14. Interrogation

_Better shun the bait than struggle in the snare._

\- John Dryden (1631–1700) -

 

-o-

_The Second of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

It happened too quickly for her to draw the pistol she always kept loaded from its holster. Suddenly from the fog someone yanked her aside, hard hands squeezing her waist and covering her mouth. Anne kicked and twisted, trying to reach her pistol or the dagger hidden in her bust. Her hands were violently wrenched behind her back; she retaliated by savagely biting the hand that was trying to muffle her. For a moment the hand lifted and someone swore right behind her ear. She screamed, but the sound lasted hardly a few seconds, for another shape emerged from the mist and backhanded her viciously across the face. 

“Another sound and you’ll slowly bleed out,” a hoarse voice whispered, while a sharp blade poked at her ribs. She nodded and made herself stop resisting. The man, who had hit her, – _the_ man with a familiar white whole-face mask – took her pistol and roughly ran his hands over her, searching for hidden weapons. Anne held her breath, still as stone. Her heart was beating madly, in a deadly race. The dagger was drawn from the bust and taken away, and her chances of survival diminished further. 

Anne knew she was in deep trouble. No one was around to see or hear as she was being dragged through narrow, deserted alleys deep into the Venetian maze. She was up against at least three heavily armed men; the first one led the way, while the second dragged her in the middle, and she could hear the third one following just behind her. She was trapped between them, with no viable means to escape.

To say that the day had not gone the way she had envisioned would have been a major understatement. Waking that morning, Anne had had a very particular aim and a somewhat hazy plan to realize it. Time was running out and she had to get what she had been tasked to find or otherwise she wouldn’t see a denier of the second, much larger fee she was due if she succeeded. For a moment, she had nourished the hope that the Musketeers had found the treaties – it would have been so much easier to steal them from a house she was already living in – but judging by their dull and moody manner at breakfast, they too had failed in their task the night before. So she had to find a way inside Ca’ Gonzaga, this time by herself and uninvited. Anne had given Louise the day off and had slipped outside, intending to walk to the palazzo, certain she could bluff or sneak her way inside. She had managed to get only a little further from the Rialto Bridge; now she had no idea where she was. 

_Two to the right, one to the left, across a bridge, to the right_ …Anne tried to memorize the way they were going, counting the different turns they took and the bridges they crossed. She had a feeling that they were going further away from the Grand Canal, but could not be certain. Even without the thick fog, the houses, alleys and canals would have all looked the same to her. For a sharp, unhelpful moment she missed the alleys of Paris that she knew like the back of her hand. She was at a severe disadvantage in this strange, foreign city. 

They crossed a narrow bridge that had no handrails, the rotting wood buckling and groaning under their weight. A few more steps and she was tugged none too gently to a sudden stop, the man before her opening a door in an inconspicuous grey wall. Apparently they had arrived to their destination, far too soon for her liking. Anne was shoved unceremoniously through the door and straight down the rickety steps into a dark, damp space. She shivered violently, suddenly feeling like she would suffocate, be buried there forever. The hands holding her didn’t relent, but dragged her further into the dark. She _couldn’t_ bear it –

Anne jabbed her elbow backwards, the bone connecting painfully with her captor´s side. Not caring about his curses, she tried to wrench herself free, kicking and hitting anyone in her vicinity. The dark space was closing in, the end coming nearer, shortening her breaths, robbing her of air. Something impacted into her midriff and she couldn’t breathe – she couldn’t breathe – she couldn’t –

“None of that now,” a man said dispassionately. She was dropped to the wet floor, gasping and wheezing. With every painful breath, she slowly put herself together, deadening her fears and gathering all her strength around her, like a shield. She would survive this. 

A sudden flare of light blinded her momentarily, and then the burning torch revealed that the dark space she had been shoved into was just a cellar with dark stone walls. There were no windows, no other doors than the one they had come through. Anne didn’t protest, when a pair of manacles was fastened around her wrists. She would have to be patient; a better chance for escape would come. 

Anne was hoisted up, the manacles attached to an iron hook on the ceiling. Luckily the ceiling was low and her toes just touched the floor; it was uncomfortable, but at least her arms didn’t have to hold all her weight. She exhaled carefully, willing her heart to slow down. This was familiar: there would be questions, probably torture. She had been in this position before, and sometimes had been the one seeking the answers. 

“Make sure we weren’t followed,” the man with the white Carnival mask commanded his companions. The two men, each of their faces obscured by black masks, immediately went up the stairs and vanished outside. It was as she had expected then; they were the hired muscle. She fixed her eyes on the man in charge, the man she had encountered in Ca’ Gonzaga the night before. Her gaze met sharp, hollow eyes amid the smooth blankness of the mask. 

“You don’t have to wear that – I _know_ you.” It wasn’t much of a risk, for she knew that the man would never let her leave the cellar alive, whether she saw his face or not.

The man snorted audibly and took the mask from his face, revealing strong features in otherwise wholly unremarkable face. “As you wish, Milady,” he sneered. The common look did nothing to soften the awful emptiness of his eyes. Although they had both been in the Cardinal’s employ, she had met him just a handful of times and had luckily never worked directly with him. But she had never forgotten his eyes or some of the tales that had been told about him. 

“Now, you know how this is going to go. Let’s safe some time and be frank with each other.” Gérard stood before her, his face almost level with hers. He was impassive, certain of his dominance. 

“And what do I get for my honesty?” He would not get anything out of her easily or for free. 

“You’ll die quickly.”

Anne gave a short, dry laugh. “That doesn’t really appeal to me.”

One corner of his mouth lifted sardonically, but the man remained silent, his eyes appraising her. Anne forced herself to look at him, the wait for coming pain its own kind of torture, squeezing her insides, making her palms clammy. With nearly every other man, she could have talked her way out of the mess, but Gérard was different. He was cold and calculating and passionless. He could not be bargained with, nor persuaded or seduced. Any pleas or prayers for mercy would be brushed aside with indifference. 

“Where are the treaties?”

“What treaties?” She didn’t bother to sound confused; they both knew that she knew what he was talking about. But _dammit all to hell_ , she wasn’t going to make this easy for him. A hard fist connected with her stomach, making her gasp and moan from pain. Apparently, she also wasn’t going to make this easy for herself. 

“Where are the treaties?” The question was repeated emotionlessly, and the dead eyes searched her face for any cracks in composure, any breach in will. 

“I quite – don’t know – what – you are – talking about.” She took shallow breaths, her insides still screaming from the sharp agony. He hit her again, this time aiming at her right side. She fought to keep her eyes open, to keep her tormentor in view. Gérard gripped her chin and put his face uncomfortably close to hers. She panted, hating that she couldn’t mask her pain or fear. He could probably smell it on her, thick and cloying. 

“You don’t have them,” he announced. “Did the Musketeers get them?”

She spat, the wet spit hitting his cheek. It was highly satisfying – for a moment. The pain of a hard blow to the corner of her eye wiped everything away. Her head threatened to split open from a thousand sharp stabs of agony, her vision blackening. 

“This is easy,” he hissed, his odious breath warming her face, “there are _hundreds_ of things I have yet to do to you, each one of them much more painful than this. This is nothing.”

Anne laughed, cracked and hollow. He was right. It was _nothing_ compared to what she had already gone through. She forced herself to look at his face, her vision still blurry. “There is nothing you can do to me that is going to be worse than – than what has already been done to me.”

“The duration and the means may vary, but in the end, pain is still pain.”

“Ah, you are a veritable philosopher,” she scoffed. He would never understand that not all pain was physical and that the pain could be worse – unbearable – not because of the act itself but because of its author. 

“Who is your employer? What does he want with the treaties?” Gérard continued to ask mercilessly, his face as emotionless as the mask he had been wearing. He pushed her, and she swung back and forth, feet searching for purchase, her raised arms spasming from pain. The manacles were a cold fire around her wrists, spreading searing agony. 

Finally she came to a halt, her toes finding the reassuring surface of the hard floor. It was a small relief, but one she was grateful for nonetheless. “Why should I…why should I tell you?” Anne croaked, her throat suddenly impossibly parched. “Why should I give you what you want, when – when you are going to kill me?” The man was pragmatic at least; maybe he would calculate that it would be easier and quicker to spare her to get the information than to fruitlessly interrogate her. Of course, if he did promise to not to kill her – there was no way in hell she would believe him. 

“Very well. Tell me all that you know, and I’ll let you leave this place – alive. After that, you better _run_.”

“I don’t believe you,” Anne snorted, the despair gaining ground in her mind. If only he would leave her alone, then she would escape, she _knew_ she could. 

“So, we are at an impasse again. What a shame.” Gérard didn’t sound particularly disappointed or vexed. Bastard. 

“Go to _hell_ ,” she spat, her fury transcending her pain for all too short a moment. 

What response that would have garnered, she didn’t get to find out, for suddenly wood banged hard against stone, someone shouted loudly and Comte de la Fére, the much revered Musketeer of Louis XIII, tumbled down the stairs and landed in a heap on the floor only a yard away from her. For a small moment both Anne and Gérard stared at the dazed, groaning figure in utter astonishment, before all participants seemed to gather their wits once more. 

Anne could only watch as the small space exploded with violent action: Athos tried to get up as his hands moved to grab the rapier that had flown from his grip and clattered to the floor a few feet away from him, but at the same time the two hired men thundered down the stairs, their own swords already drawn. But Gérard proved to be the quickest of them; he kicked the Musketeer savagely to the head and wrenched the weapon away from him. Within a minute, Athos was subdued, disarmed and shackled. It was downright pitiful, _pathetic_. 

The men fastened Athos’ manacles to one of the iron rings on the wall, leaving him slumping against the stone. He looked already the worse for wear, blood dirtying his temple, the side of his face. When finally their eyes met, she could detect a hint of pain, worry and sheepishness in his gaze. She glowered back with all her strength, angry that he had apparently been following her, but even more furious that he had gotten caught in the same trap she had.

“Well, this should be interesting,” Gérard remarked dryly. “Let’s see which one of you talks first, shall we?”

-o-

Laura Mancini was dangerous. Her golden hair framed her lovely face, her red lips were drawn into an enticing smile, the pretty eyes twinkled with intelligence and charm – she could easily make a man forget his purpose or thaw his determination. She was good company; humorous, quick-witted and opinionated. The courtesan had clearly studied different subjects, more so than Porthos, and had knowledge from different areas of life, perhaps because of her trade. She spoke flawless French and had been to Paris and many other places. The dinner was easily spent with interesting and amiable conversation, neither of them judging the time to be right for more vigorous prying or interrogation. Porthos certainly found himself reluctant to shatter the temporary truce between them. He hadn’t had as good a time in a while, not since his friends’ dark moods started polluting his own. 

After a satisfying meal they moved into a tastefully decorated drawing room, the atmosphere instantly becoming more charged, thrillingly expectant. Laura Mancini arranged herself onto a settee, looking in the soft candlelight like one of the paintings on the walls, a beautiful model amid a swathe of fine silk, body in a sensuous pose. Porthos didn’t bother to hide his admiring gaze; after all, she had undoubtedly worked quite hard to make herself that irresistible. 

A valet served them each a glass of wine and then departed discreetly, leaving the carafe on the table next to a plate of small confections. They were finally alone, the drawing room doors tightly closed against the curious eyes of servants. Porthos resigned himself to sipping his drink slowly; he needed a clear head and already her alluring presence was heady enough to muddle his thoughts. 

“I hope your companions do not feel very slighted that I got you all to myself this evening, robbing them of your company,” the Signora purred, stretching her lithe frame in a very distracting manner. 

“I doubt it,” Porthos chuckled mirthlessly. 

“Oh? Well, it’s their loss. I haven’t had so stimulating dinner conversation for some time. Just the same old senile farts, yammering endlessly about their very important lives…so boring.” She gave him a sly smile, the pink tip of her tongue darting to wet her lips. “You on the other hand – you are quite something else.” 

“I should hope so.” The corners of his mouth lifted into a smile; he was flattered despite himself. 

Laura Mancini’s appraising gaze roamed shamelessly over his body, from head to toe. “You are a man of action, speaking loudest with a rapier in your hand. Empty words, games of power – they are not your forte.”

“No,” Porthos admitted, “but I can play with the best of them.” 

“Can you?” The courtesan seemed amused. “Perhaps. But still, I have a feeling that you – and your companions – are out of your depth here in Venice.” 

“Really?” He made his voice sound mildly curious. “The people we have met here have been very generous and courteous; I think our visit will be successful.” 

Her laugh was lovely, like the dance of silver bells, and although there was a hint of mockery in it, Porthos still liked the sound of it. “Monsieur Porthos, you have a very positive outlook – judging by what you have accomplished since your arrival, I wouldn’t be nearly so hopeful of a successful outcome as you are.”

Porthos tensed, wondering if they were going to veil the meaning of their words the whole evening, or if he should just stop skirting the issue and use a direct approach. He detested empty words and petty games; she had been right about that. 

Signora Mancini looked at him knowingly and snorted, “Let’s stop wasting time. Neither of us is in the mood for these games.” She bit into a sugary confection, giving him a chance to fill the ensuing silence. But Porthos refused to be the first to unmask the real purpose of their meeting; after all, _she_ had invited him. The courtesan smirked, guessing what he was thinking. She ate the treat carefully, and then licked the slight traces of sugary powder from her fingers. His heartbeat fastened. 

“We’re not enemies, you know,” she finally said. “Our goal is the same, although the means may differ.”

“What were you doing in the Duke’s rooms?” 

“The same as you, _obviously_.” Laura Mancini rolled her eyes. “And so far, both of us have failed.”

Porthos digested her words and calculated how much he could reveal of the mission the King had tasked them with. He had a feeling she already knew fairly much – much more than the Musketeers knew about her motives. He plunged ahead, deciding he couldn’t find out anything important by mincing his words. “Who is your employer? And what do they want with the treaties?”

“A more relevant question would be: why don’t they want the Duke to have the treaties?” Her eyes were sparkling with pleasure; she liked all the intrigue and suspense, probably enjoyed her role as a spy. “Not all in Venice want a part in the Duke’s scheme or think it is good for our country.” 

“If that is so, they can help us get the treaties – then we can arrest the Duke and take him away from Venice. Problem solved.” 

“I’m afraid it’s not so simple. In the wrong hands, the treaty the Council of Ten has signed can do irreversible damage to Venice. No, that document at least cannot leave this city.” Laura Mancini pursed her lips, vague unease coloring her words. 

Porthos suppressed the tired sigh that wanted to break free; of course nothing was ever simple, not when power and wealth were on the line. “Then what does your employer want from us?” He would not promise anything – not without consulting the others first. 

“Just what I already told you; that while you have a certain freedom to act here, there are limits – and that we can help each other to achieve what we all want.” The courtesan smiled pleasantly, but Porthos didn’t doubt that she – or her mysterious employer – couldn’t employ more forceful methods of persuasion if the occasion warranted it. 

“If we are _allies_ , as you claim, and working towards a common goal,” Porthos said carefully, “then I – and my companions – must know who it is that we are helping.” 

“You’ll give the treaty to us, if you find it?” Her eyes sought to penetrate him, judging his truthfulness, his resolve. 

“That is not my decision to make alone.” He was just one of the four and they had always decided about everything important in a group. Granted, Athos’ opinions tended to garner more weight, but ultimately they all had a say in how to accomplish their missions. 

Laura Mancini rose swiftly from her seat, and Porthos scrambled to follow suit. “Well, when you have _talked_ about it,” she made it sound like the Musketeers were a group of nervous gossipers, breathlessly debating the merits of some trivial matter, “and have come to the right decision, we can return to the subject. But before that – I’m afraid we have nothing more to talk about.”

It was clear that it would be utterly fruitless to try to change her mind. Porthos gave the courtesan a low bow, a sign of his acquiescence. He felt a little disappointed; he had genuinely enjoyed her company and was sad to see the evening come to an end. “That’s a shame; I would have liked for our meeting to last a little longer.” 

Laura Mancini gave him a small, but brilliant smile. “We don’t have to talk – there are far more pleasant things to spend our time with.”

Porthos felt an answering smile spread across his face. He was in no hurry to carry the news to his sour companions, and he had certainly earned some free time. “What you have in mind?”

“I’ll show you,” the courtesan promised, and then there was no talking for quite some time.


	15. Answers and silence

_Il faut gouverner la fortune comme la santé: en jouir quand elle est bonne, prendre patience quand elle est mauvaise. (Luck must be dealt with like health: enjoy it when it is good, be patient when it is bad.)_

\- François de La Rochefoucauld (1613 – 1680) -

 

-o-

_The Second of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

It was not the best of days for sightseeing. The thick grey fog covered both the splendors and the miseries of the city, hiding the magnificent palazzos and churches as well as the ramshackle abodes. Even the imposing _Basilica di Santa Maria Gloriosa dei Frari_ , the great church only a short walk away from Ca’ Monteverdi, was shrouded in mist. The church had become a familiar landmark for d’Artagnan; its distinctive brick campanile could be normally seen from the small window of the room he slept in.

After just a few turns away from _Campo dei Frari_ , d’Artagnan and Louise became hopelessly lost, but did not mind it very much. They were in high spirits, free of the oppressive atmosphere of Ca’ Monteverdi and the dull toil of their duties as servants. Walking the eerie walkways and alleys, it seemed like they were in a mazelike ghost town; more than once they had to turn back after reaching a sudden dead end. 

The chilly fog and the bleak wind made them duck inside a small church to warm themselves up; they stayed for a while, peering at the wondrous paintings and sculptures in the dim candlelight. After that, they braved the weather again, reaching the edge of the city and coming to stand before a row of different sized ships that creaked and groaned against their moorings. The mist hid the lagoon in its cold embrace; it was impossible to tell on which side of Venice they were, if they were facing mainland or Giudecca. They stared at the water they couldn’t see and heard how the waves hit the pier, how the water tried to climb into the stone walkway. It was a desolate scene, and although they were there together, d’Artagnan knew they both faced it alone. Not wanting to let the dark thoughts banish his good mood, he took hold of Louise’s cold hand and drew her away, guiding her inside the first tavern they came across. 

The tavern was well-worn and scruffy, but surprisingly comfy. About a dozen people were gathered near the fireplace, the roaring fire enfolding d’Artagnan like a warm blanket the moment they stepped inside. They chose a free table and without prompting, a paunchy barman placed a bottle of wine and bowls of steaming soup in front of them. It was already midday, and so they ate their meal with relish, hardly saying a word. After his bowl was scraped clean, d’Artagnan leaned against the back of the chair, almost drowsy. He didn’t feel like moving for a very long time, content to bask in the warmth and enjoy the feeling of a full stomach. 

“You look like you need a nap,” Louise stated, her smile evident in her voice.

D’Artagnan opened his eyes that had somehow fallen shut without his notice. “It seems so. It’s been a long couple of days – actually, it’s been quite a long few months.” 

“It’s hard serving the Comte?” 

“No…well, sometimes.” He grinned, but then sobered as his thoughts turned to Constance. “There have just been some personal things…What about you? Is Milady a demanding mistress?”

“That depends on what you think is demanding.” Louise took hold of the bottle and poured their cups to the brim with the dark red wine. 

“They say noblewomen are fickle – that they demand service day and night, that they expect you to fulfil their every wish, however petty or impossible.” 

“They say that about noblemen too.” Louise frowned and pursed her lips. “But I have only ever been in Milady’s service, so I wouldn’t know, for she isn’t like that.” 

“A good employer then?” D’Artagnan was aware that he should tread carefully; Louise was obviously quick to defend her mistress. “You were lucky to get such a position, especially if you didn’t have any prior experience.”

“Yes,” Louise admitted quietly, “very lucky.” Her eyes were looking for somewhere far away. “If I hadn’t, I would probably be dead, or worse.” 

“You were living in the streets?” D’Artagnan asked gently, recognizing the shadows of past in her gaze. None could really escape where they came from. 

Louise didn’t answer, only smiled. It was a small smile, fraught with remembered pain, but also full of triumph: she had survived. D’Artagnan answered her smile with his own, admiring her resilience. “And now you are here, in Venice of all places.”

“Oh, I have seen so many places I never could have imagined,” Louise gushed. “But Venice is definitely one of a kind – even when it’s shrouded in a hellish fog!”

“I always wanted to travel,” d’Artagnan confessed, “but this is the first time I’ve been abroad. Where else have you been?”

“London, the Hague, Munich, Turin…”

“Isn’t Turin close to Venice?” D’Artagnan fought to not give away his acute interest, but his heart was beating a little faster. He knew exactly where Turin was – after all, it was the capital of Savoy. 

“Yes. We met the Monteverdis there and they invited us here…” Louise’s voice faded away and she quickly took a big gulp of her drink. It seemed like she had realized that she had said more than she probably should have. D’Artagnan was exited. Finally, something concrete, something that was a strong indication – if not a solid proof – of Milady’s treachery. She had been in Turin right before she had come to Venice, which meant she had been there at the time the Duke of Savoy had met Gaston’s envoy. Somehow, she was a part of the plot. D’Artagnan was sure of it. 

“I should probably get back,” Louise said, avoiding his gaze, “I have to get Milady’s evening dress ready…” She was already rising from her chair, but d’Artagnan took a hold of her wrist, feeling suddenly inexplicably guilty. He had taken advantage of her, after a fashion. 

“But you got the whole day off – and it’s early yet.” He gave her a pleading look, honestly wanting her company. “Let’s drink the bottle empty and explore the city and get lost again…”

“Getting lost? That’s your idea of a good time?” Her voice was doubtful, but a wry smile was slowly taking over her face. 

“Well, getting lost with _you_ is.”

“Flatterer,” Louise accused, but her eyes were once again looking at him warmly, and d’Artagnan knew it was a _yes_.

-o-

A sound of pain, muffled and involuntary, reverberated in the half-empty warehouse. Durand didn’t shift from his position against the wall, nor did he wince, although the sight before him was sickening. He had never really gotten used to this part of the job: he could wage war, protect and attack, but dishing out violence against those, who could not fight back…It always made him uncomfortably aware of how far he had fallen from the ideal he had once held dear, it chafed against some long forgotten morale. 

Durand contemplated the man before him, impressed and irritated by his tenacity in equal measure. The man – Aramis – was a soldier, there was no question about that, was probably still a Musketeer as Durand suspected. Even though he hadn’t said a word, despite all the violence and torture he had endured, the steely backbone of professional soldering, the nonchalance in the face of danger of those who were intimately familiar with death and violence, was all too visible in the prisoner’s conduct and countenance. Not to mention the man was stubborn as a devil. He had refused to answer any questions, not even deigning to reply with colorful curses. But the sounds of pain he couldn’t suppress – not anymore. 

The man sat slumped on the stone floor, the manacles fastening him to a support pillar the only things that kept him somewhat upright. He looked bloody, dirty and broken, barely conscious. One of his eyes was swollen shut and half his face was black and blue. The prisoner’s right arm was twisted in an uncomfortable angle, no doubt fractured. The other arm was bare and bore the marks of countless little burns. It had been a long evening. 

Philippe and Jean, to whom he had delegated the task of enforcing the answers out of the prisoner, were beginning to grow frustrated and bored. Despite their best efforts, the man kept his silence, and Durand suspected that even his two most ruthless men were starting to lose their appetite for inflicting pain. It was no fun, when the recipient gave nothing back, offered no pleas or made no offers of bargain. Durand stifled a deep sigh. It was futile. The man would rather die than talk; it had been obvious hours ago. Only his duty – and well, self-preservation, he could admit that – had kept Durand watching the morbid performance as long as he had. The Duke expected answers. Not accustomed to being denied anything by anyone below his station, the heir to the French throne did not take it well, when he did not get what he wanted. 

For once, Durand couldn’t really blame his employer for making a big deal out of nothing, for this time the stakes were considerably higher. This wasn’t some peasant, who had somehow managed to offend His Highness, nor was it some minor nobleman, who had given an insult that only Gaston had perceived. The Duke’s whole future – and therefore also Durand’s – was on the line. If the King knew what his brother was up to, if he got proof of the treason…Gaston would probably be banished from France, but it would be Durand, who would lose his head. 

Still, the Captain knew when someone was beating a dead horse. The prisoner was hanging to consciousness by a thread; they would get nothing out of him for the rest of the night. Which was fortunate, for Durand was fast approaching his tolerance of watching the torture.

“Enough.” Philippe and Jean stopped immediately, accustomed to taking orders from their Captain. “He’s in no shape to give any answers; we’ll continue tomorrow. You can go – I’ll expect you to be present here at dawn.” The men would appreciate some free time, no doubt gladly drinking, gambling and whoring through the night, but if that would wind them down Durand had no objections. 

Philippe and Jean left the warehouse eagerly, leaving Durand alone with the prisoner. He approached the man and crouched down to examine his ruined face. The man’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and rapid. He was a sorry sight, but would live the night. 

“As you have seen, silence will not give you a reprieve.” Durand didn’t know why he tried reasoning with the prisoner, but something compelled him to try. “And we will continue this tomorrow, I promise you that. So why should you suffer needlessly? What is worth such pain?”

“Not what,” the man croaked, his voice hardly audible, “ _who_.” 

Those were the first and last words Durand heard him say. Then the man succumbed into unconsciousness, and the Captain left him alone in the darkness.

-o-

Athos had not spent long chained to the wall, when the men unfastened Anne’s manacles from the iron hook on the ceiling and hung Athos onto it instead. He was relieved – he would rather be the subject of the roughing up than watch on the sidelines, unable to help, when someone else was being hurt. 

Head still throbbing painfully from his earlier tumble down the stairs, Athos scowled at his jailers, pride smarting from having been taken unawares. He had hurried after Anne single-mindedly, too focused on not letting her get away to notice how he had walked straight into ambush. If he had been more mindful, more careful, they wouldn’t be now prisoners in a dank cellar, at the mercy of mercenaries. Instead, he would have found Anne – and the tree men would have been dead, dying or seriously wounded. 

Anne had curled up, half-facing the stone wall. Her dark, tangled hair covered most of her face, hiding the bruises that had bloomed against her cheek and the corner of her eye. Fastened by manacles to an iron ring, she looked small and ragged, unbearably helpless. Her stubborn silence resulted now more from exhaustion than from her earlier defiance. Athos forced his eyes away from her, instead focusing on the man in charge of the interrogation. 

It was a most disconcerting thing; the man examined him with obvious curiosity, but still his eyes were almost dead looking, his stare vacant. The man was a professional mercenary, a hired thug, but Athos couldn’t remember encountering him before. Still, everything about the man – his countenance, his conduct, his eyes – told Athos all he needed to know: the man was dangerous and would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. 

“I hope you are more talkative than your wife, for all our sakes,” the man said with feigned nonchalance. “This is easy – I only have one question for you to answer. Even a Musketeer should manage that, don’t you think?” 

And indeed, there was only one question that the leader of the thugs kept repeating – where were the treaties? –, over and over again, but Athos kept as quiet as Anne had. The pain was familiar and manageable, the sharp agony quickly dulled by the strength of mind. He concentrated on the things his tormentor unwittingly revealed, pondering their meaning even as heavy blows rained upon him. 

The man had demanded that Anne name her employer, but there was no such question for Athos. The man was already fully aware of who Athos was and who he was working for. Obviously the mercenary wanted the treaties for himself, but for what reason? Who was _his_ employer? The man was French, ruthless and seemed to know much about both Athos and Anne. It was dishearteningly possible and very believable that the Cardinal had his hand in this too. It made sense. The possession of those treaties would give the First Minister of France power over many things – and over many people. 

Athos’ thoughts ground to a halt after a particularly vicious strike that left him gasping for air and fighting against nausea. He swallowed the bitter bile rising in his throat, pushing the pain down. Deep down into that unfathomable well, the impenetrable darkness that devoured everything he could not carry – for a while. 

The man grabbed a fistful of Athos’ hair, roughly pulling him into meeting the dead eyes. “You think you’ll tell me nothing,” the man growled, frowning, “and unfortunately, I don’t have the time to break you properly. But I’ll have all the time for _her_.” He nodded to the other men, who had so far stood idly by. They started to lift Athos down from the hook; he dredged up the last of his reserves of strength, kicking one of the men in the shin, struggling and wiggling to get free. 

He would be damned, if he let them –

One of the men dropped to the floor whining from pain, but all too soon Athos was pressed to the hard stone floor, the pressure of a sharp blade against the back of his neck a stark warning. He stilled grudgingly, heart clenching painfully. Athos told himself that Anne could endure any torment the man intended to subject her to in order to get Athos to talk, that she had survived a hangman’s noose and God knew what else, but no amount of reasoning could banish the sudden inexplicable rage and fear he felt on her behalf. 

“Only the worst kind of dishonorable coward tortures women,” Athos spat, lifting his head from the floor. Anne was watching him, her sad eyes slaying him where he lay. Her gaze was both admonishing and resigned. 

“If she was an ordinary woman, I would probably agree,” the man said casually, “but we both know she is far from ordinary.” The mercenary rested his sword more forcefully against Athos’ neck; the steel stung, no doubt breaking the skin. 

“Touch her again, and I’ll _kill_ you,” Athos promised vehemently. He knew he didn’t do himself or Anne any favors by losing his temper, by showing their captor even an inch of weakness, but he could not just stay silent and do nothing. The man should know what the consequences of his actions were, what awaited him the moment Athos got free and could face him. 

“Very chivalrous,” the man said as Athos was wrenched upright and forced to the wall, his manacles fastened around the iron ring next to Anne. “I myself have never understood it – this compulsion to bend over backwards for a woman. After all, world is full of them; one is as good as the other.”

“You just said she was anything but ordinary,” Athos couldn’t help but snipe, unusually irritated. 

“That wasn’t exactly a glowing praise. I’m surprised at your fervor in defending her. Didn’t you try to kill each other? That’s not very…marital.”

“Then clearly you have never been married.” Although Athos knew it would be ultimately futile to try to play for time, he couldn’t help but hope to distract the man, to get him delay the carrying out of his threat as long as possible. But the mercenary was already motioning for his companions to untie Anne. Athos steeled himself: he would be hard as stone, impenetrable. 

“Judging from your experience – not a great loss,” the man snorted with obvious contempt. 

“Oh, just spare me from your idiotic chatter,” Anne murmured. She didn’t move an inch, when one of the thugs started to unlock her manacles from the iron ring. Nothing in her impassive demeanor bespoke of fear. She would give the men as much of scorn and defiance as she had given Athos, when she had stood underneath that tree, with a rope around her neck. As always, the thought of that day stung fiercely, but now the familiar ache was mixed with something else: pride. Athos found himself to be uncommonly proud of her obstinacy, her aloofness – her strength – in the face of pain and death.

He would follow her example and be mute as a rock, immovable. He would be patient. For there would come a time, when Athos could and _would_ , without hesitation, fulfil the promise he had given to the mercenary. He was rather looking forward to it.


	16. Chains

_We know what we are, but not what we may be._

\- William Shakespeare (1564–1616), _Hamlet_ \- 

-o-

_The Second of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

Anne woke up with a start, tense and aching. For a brief terrible moment she was disoriented, the memory of the day just out of her reach. A jarring pain that pulsed deep from her very bones seized her; Anne bit her lip sharply as not to cry out. With pain came recognition. She remembered everything. It was a small miracle that she had fallen asleep in the first place – she must have been beyond exhaustion. 

How much time had she wasted with useless sleep? Anne shifted carefully, changing her position and peering around. Everything seemed to be as she remembered: Athos’ slumped form was still beside her, chained to the wall in the same manner as she was. The cellar was dark, but not pitch-black. The lone candle was still burning at the other end of the room, but its length had shortened at least a few hours’ worth. As before, the guard sat on the bottom stair, but now he was leaning heavily against the wall, head drooping. A flask of spirits lay abandoned at his feet, presumably empty. A small snuffling sound indicated that the man was fast asleep. 

Irked, Anne poked Athos’ shin with her boot. “Why didn’t you wake me?” She hissed, keeping her voice so quiet it was barely audible. 

“It seemed better to let you sleep.” Athos straightened up as much as he was able, turning to face Anne. His face, half in shadow, was lined with worry and the vestiges of lingering anger. “How are you feeling?” 

“Terrible,” Anne snorted, “but I’ll live.” Her bruised flesh and bones ached almost smoothly, a harmonious symphony of pain. However, the lead instrument – her mangled fingers – was louder and brasher than all the rest combined, threatening to drown the tune of other hurts. She bared her teeth, wanting to howl with all she had, but knew she couldn’t. “You really should have woken me,” Anne whispered, a small groan escaping against her will. 

“What good would that have done?” Athos grumbled darkly. “We remain chained to this wall until someone with a key – or a chisel – comes close enough. I was waiting that the guard has drank enough before attempting to lure him here.”

“Did you also mean to wait until he had his little nap?” Anne couldn’t help but snipe. The whole situation was maddening and the pain was making her irritable, constantly warring for her attention. She fought to maintain her focus: the time had come to finally get out of the hellhole. 

“The deeper the sleep, the more disoriented he is, when he wakes.” Was it her imagination, or did Athos sound almost defensive? 

“Well, we need him to sleep on.” Anne nudged Athos’ leg again with her boot, hard. 

“Will you stop that?” Athos hissed, voice surly. Anne grinned; it was always fun to antagonize her husband, in however small ways. 

“My boot.” Anne glanced at the guard, checking that the man remained asleep. “There is a small steel blade inside my boot – it will be our key.”

A brief silence, and Athos whispered, “Let’s hope it’ll work.” He then grudgingly admitted, “Very… ingenious.”

They were sitting side by side, so close that Anne could feel the warmth of Athos’ body in the otherwise frigid, damp air. She twisted sideways, so she was nearly resting on her left side, drawing her right leg closer to her chest. Her dress, now disgustingly dirty, was hopelessly bunched up around her thighs, hampering her movements. The men had chained her to the wall from her left wrist; her right hand could have easily reached for the blade and picked the lock of her manacle open. Except the mere thought of moving the fingers of her right hand made her almost retch. 

Anne shifted closer to Athos, so that her knee pressed gently against his side. “You’ll have to do it. I…I can’t. My –” She swallowed, tasting bile, “my fingers.” Gérard had broken three of them, wrenched them violently until there had been the sickening crunch of bone and her desperate screams of pain. Only the sudden message he had gotten from one of his minions had spared her from further torment. The bloody bastard had then left them, sure in the knowledge that he would get his answers later and that one guard was all that was needed to watch over his prisoners. Anne wanted to see Gérard’s face, when he realized how wrong he had been. Better yet, she wanted to see his eyes, when she plunged the dagger to his insides and _twisted_. 

“Is it…” Athos’ hand moved towards her broken fingers, hovering near them, the movement as uncertain as his words. But then he drew his hand quickly back, directing it to her boot instead. His fingers edged along her leg, shockingly warm against the cold skin that only a thin stocking covered. Anne shivered, tremors rushing over her like a cresting wave, from toes to the tip of her fingers. 

“You better know how to pick a lock,” she murmured, tensing beneath his touch. After hard, violent hands, Athos’ touch was almost unbearably careful, too soft. Anne was both relieved and disappointed, when he found the thin blade hidden inside her boot and drew it slowly out. 

“Oh, you’d be surprised to know what skills I have acquired since I joined the Musketeers.” Athos’ face remained somber, holding no traces of the smirk that colored his words.

“I remember you were rather skillful even before,” she remarked lightly, smiling. Athos had always excelled in all he set his mind into. Perhaps he hadn’t known how to pick locks as a Comte, but he certainly had had plenty of other talents – some quite useful in the bedroom. 

“Well, you certainly possessed skills that I had no idea you had.” His voice had changed several degrees colder. Why did he always have to do it? Break every moment of possible levity or amiability between them with thinly veiled references to their – _her_ – dark past? Every bone, every muscle throbbing with stinging pain, Anne stayed silent, closing her eyes briefly. She would have given almost anything for a stiff drink. 

Athos shifted awkwardly in the small space he could move in, searching for the right angle to best get to the lock. He was chained to the wall from the right hand, so he gripped the small, nail-like blade tightly in his left hand, aiming it towards the keyhole of the thick manacle. The chain rattled and the sound seemed to echo in the half-empty room; they both froze, hardly daring to breathe. For one tense moment they waited, but the guard did not move. 

Anne sighed with relief. If they got caught now…Well, she could always ram the blade into the guard’s neck, if he gave her the slightest chance. Luckily for them – and for the man – Athos was able to continue unhindered his attempt to open the lock. Anne reached for the manacle with her free hand, steadying it and preventing the iron from clanging against the wall, while he prodded and poked the keyhole with the blade. 

Long, frustrating minutes passed in silence. Anne struggled to hold in her less than favorable opinion of Athos’ efforts. She would have gotten the lock open by now, even if she had to do it left-handed like him. The way he was doing it – they would still be in the cellar in their old age. 

“You’re doing it wrong,” she finally hissed. 

“I’m not doing it wrong,” he insisted with maddening certainty. “It’s dark, I have to use my left hand and this thing is rusted as hell – it’s going to take some time.”

“ _Clearly_ ,” she remarked caustically, but then fell silent, knowing her words would not help him be any quicker in his task. And she wanted away from the stinking, cold cellar with a desperation that was quite unbecoming. The smell of mud, mildew and something badly rotten lay thick in the heavy air. The room was below ground level, likely surrounded by the dirty, murky canal. The walls were seeping dampness; beneath her back a small rivulet of freezing water was running down the hard stone. 

“You know the bastard?” Athos didn’t have to specify which bastard he meant – it was clear he was talking about their dead-eyed tormentor and jailer.

“Shouldn’t you be concentrating on picking that damn lock?”

“I can do both,” he grunted, continuing stubbornly, “Is he in the Cardinal’s employ?”

Anne figured there would be no harm in answering, especially if the Cardinal got his due. “Yes, of course. He is called Gérard; I have no idea if that is actually his real name. He is supposedly the best man Cardinal has.”

“I thought you were the best.”

“I said the best _man_ ,” Anne huffed, irritated. Something made her continue, “And I don’t work for him anymore, all of that is in the past.”

“Then who do you work for? Why do you want those treaties?” Athos didn’t take his eyes off the manacle, and all his focus was seemingly on picking the lock. But Anne felt the weight of his words anyway; his voice pierced her, demanded answers. 

“So now you decide to interrogate me? Are you going to break my remaining fingers if I don’t answer?”

“Why do you always have to work against me?” Athos said quietly.

“And why do you _always_ have to think the worst of me?” She countered heatedly, the familiar anger burning through her like wildfire, scorching and blistering. 

The lock clicked open. 

They looked at each other. The beginnings of a grin, a twitch round the corner of his mouth, made Athos’ face all the more handsome. Silently he freed himself from the manacles and rose up, eyes turned towards the guard, who still slept on, oblivious. Quietly, like some big predator of the wild, Athos stalked closer to the stairs, the small blade his only weapon. Anne was quite certain he wouldn’t have needed even that; the guard was taken completely by surprise. 

Athos could have slit the man’s throat without him ever awakening, but of course he thought it dishonorable to kill a man thus – or maybe he just wanted the guard to know what fate would befall him. Athos let the man begin to wake up drowsily, his eyes blinking in disbelief, hands starting to grope for his sword. All of it was futile though and the guard could not offer any kind of defense against a man much his superior in skill, strength, will – in anything, really. Anne watched with satisfaction as the guard toppled to the floor, life fleeing from him rapidly. 

Heart picking up speed, Anne shifted restlessly, itching to get up, to climb into the fresh air. It seemed Athos took his sweet time searching the man for the key, although it couldn’t have been but just a moment, before he was crouching before her, key in hand, the guard’s rapier secured in his own sword belt. He opened the lock of the manacle, and immediately Anne drew her wrist away, like the cold iron had burned her skin. She staggered to her feet, hardly noticing Athos’ steadying hand on her shoulder. 

Anne smoothed down her dress, wrapped the cloak more tightly around her, but knew her disheveled and battered appearance would be instantly noticeable to anyone, who took a good look at her. What on earth would she tell the Monterverdis? Suddenly her thoughts were hazy and sluggish, unwilling to give her any answers. Now that she was free, Anne was simply too tired, too much in pain to plan further ahead than the long trek back to the palazzo – she would think of something in the morning. Now she just wanted out of the damn cellar. 

“Let’s go,” she urged and walked a little shakily towards the stairs, not giving the dead man a glance. The stairs looked impossibly steep and narrow. Athos followed her without a word. Both of them knew their ordeal was still not over; they had to somehow find their way back to Ca’ Monteverdi. 

Anne halted in front of the stairs, taking a deep breath. There was no rail on the left side to brace one’s hand against, only the stone wall on the right. 

“Can you manage?” Athos asked quietly, his hand touching the small of her back. 

“Did the guard have any money? Did you take it?”

“Why?” Athos’ voice told her he didn’t particularly like robbing the dead. 

“I can manage the stairs,” she vowed, “but I am _not_ walking back. So either we are paying someone to row us back or –”

The pressure of Athos’ hand left her and Anne heard the sound of a body being moved around, the jingle of coins. She took the first agonizing step up the stairs, leaning heavily on the wall with her shoulder, the fingers of her right hand dangling uselessly against her hip. A strong palm settled again on its place against her back, assuring her that she would not fall. 

Anne climbed the stairs all the way up, not faltering even once.

-o-

The fair hair glowed golden in the candlelight. Aramis reached for the silken tresses, marveled at their spill over her slight shoulders, the way they cascaded down her back, her bare arms. She was impossibly lovely, ethereal. It didn’t seem real that he could touch her and feel the smooth skin beneath his fingers, the warmth of her body, the faint drum of her heart. 

For this one night, she wasn’t the Queen, but a tangible, living woman. She didn’t look like a queen, her hair open, feet bare, clad only in a simple, slip of a dress. Beneath him, she didn’t feel like a queen, body molding into his, tiny hands grasping him tightly to her, mouth gasping small sounds of pleasure. Her passion was that of a mortal woman, equal to his in its fervor and urgency. 

Her words echoed in his ears, long after the sound of her voice had vanished and the silence had been replaced by involuntary sighs and moans. _You are brave and honorable and kind_. He wanted to believe her. _Any woman would be fortunate to be loved by you_. Even then, he knew that to be untrue. But he could love her well for a moment. There was only the moment, the two of them, her hair glowing in the light. 

Her kisses were sweet and stinging in equal measure, her touch demanding and soothing. Everything he offered, she took gladly, conserved deep into herself. She let him press himself into her, brand her with his kisses and touch, leave invisible marks meant to last long after their moment was over. He couldn’t help it; he wanted to leave a part of himself behind, a sign, a reminder that declared _I loved you_. 

_Remember how I love you_. 

But what he had left behind had led only to sorrow and pain and guilt. 

The candlelight died down, his fingers reached for nothing. It was dark, so dark. The blackest of nights was not as dark as this place. Aramis could not tell if he was on land or sea, if he touched earth or air, if he breathed or not. Will I get to see my son, he thought. I didn’t get to see him, let alone hold him. 

Isabelle’s solemn, pitying eyes found him in the dark. She walked to him, but did not touch him, for she belonged to God now, had always belonged. He just hadn’t known it, like he hadn’t known so many things. _We have both found our true vocation_ , she smiled and offered him the bloody sword. Her belly was flat and hollow, the fruit soured long ago. Her father had buried the baby, before Aramis could see it, had hidden both Isabelle and the baby away. Only – _it was my choice_ , she reminded him, gently but so cruelly it pierced his heart. 

_We would have been miserable_. Isabelle said. The Queen said. 

She was properly dressed now, in layers of silk and lace and jewels. Her hair was bound above her head, covered with an elaborate ornament. The light reflected from the gold and silver of her dress was cold. Her skin was like marble, the regal bearing that of a statue proudly displayed in mausoleums and galleries. There was no hint of a heart throbbing from joy, from sorrow, from life, no sound of a distant beat. 

_Can you picture us together, children at our feet?_ It was not an admonishment, just a flat statement. _No, you can’t. I never could._

The woman he had made love to was gone, there was only the Queen. Untouchable, self-possessed, distant. Why did you sent me away, he asked, although no words left his lips. Her eyes skirted to the side, away from him, and she stayed silent. Aramis reached for her, searching for the marks he had left on her, the sign he had pressed into her skin with his lips, thousand times. _Remember how I love you? Remember._

Her eyes refused to meet his, his hands met only nothingness. She shivered in the cold air, snow falling all around her, thick and soft. Her small fingers touched her flat belly, now so hollow, carved empty. _It was a lie_. The whiteness fell on her, settled on her golden dress, her bare shoulders. _I know you better than you know yourself._ The snow covered her from view, until only the cold remained. He was so cold; everything in him was slowly turning into ice. 

The white was the dark, the cold in the dark. 

I know what I am. The clarity of that thought hit him like musket’s fire, burned him to the bone. I know my true vocation. Always it was to destroy, never to build. It was to kill, not to create. 

_We are what we are. No power on earth will change that_ , she whispered and left him then in the dark, alone. And although he already missed her presence, ached with the lack of her – now he understood. Their moment had ended. They would never again be _We_ , but only _You_ and _I_ , worlds and oceans and heavens apart.


	17. An uncertain truth

_Les doutes sont fâcheux plus que toute autre chose. (Doubts are more cruel than the worst of truths.)_

\- Molière (1622 – 1673), _Le Misanthrope_ \- 

 

-o-

_The Third of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The clock had already struck past midnight, when they approached Ca’ Monteverdi, breathless from laughter and exertion. The palazzo was silent and cloaked in dark shadows; a lantern glowing yellow light was the only sign pointing them to the back door. Which was, of course, bolted and locked tight against any thieves, murderers, vagabonds and drunks. 

“Oh, _bugger_ ,” Louise stated and then burst into laughter. D’Artagnan chuckled, sharing her sentiment wholeheartedly, and tried the door once more, pulling it with all his considerable might. No lock would stop him – he was a King’s Musketeer. However, the heavy wooden door refused to budge, tipping d’Artagnan’s balance instead and sending him sprawling onto the street on all fours. 

“How em-bar-rass-ing,” Louise drawled, “how are we going to get inside now?” But as she said it, she was also hiccupping from laughter, so d’Artagnan trusted she wasn’t too distressed by his failure to open the door. Not that the fault was his; they had somehow stayed outside far later than planned, as the fog had finally lifted in the evening, revealing the city in all its splendor. They couldn’t pass the opportunity to explore Venice now that they could actually see it, and there had been a lot to see. And if, during their exploration, they had also stopped in a couple of taverns to fortify themselves, well that was neither here nor there. 

“Don’t worry,” d’Artagnan promised solemnly, trying to get his uncooperative legs to stand, “I will get us inside. I am – I am…” Suddenly he remembered that it would not be a good idea to proclaim that he was a King’s Musketeer, although he really, really wanted to say it. It would impress Louise, he was certain, but the small problem was that he was supposed to be a goddamned valet. And she didn’t think he was very good with valeting and it was true he hated to fold those damn shirts that never stayed crinkle free and he couldn’t understand how the _real_ valets did it –

“D’Artagnan?” Louise brought his thoughts to a sudden halt. Her face glowed in the lantern’s light, like the sun. 

“Your face is like the sun,” he proclaimed and heaved himself upright. 

Louise snorted loudly and swatted his arm playfully, nearly managing to topple him once again to the ground. “I bet it is, and you’ll say I’m more beautiful than the Queen if only I let you into my bed.”

D’Artagnan frowned, fairly certain he had just been accused of being a liar. Which he wasn’t. Except for the part where he was a King’s Musketeer, not a valet. “I think…I think you are more lovely than the Queen,” he said, unabashedly sincere, “for you are real and here and nice.”

“You are rather nice yourself.” Louise smiled, and the blush of her cheeks, the glitter of her eyes was so lovely. Lovely like the sun. He touched her cheek, stroked the smooth skin. Her skin felt warm against his fingers. 

“You are warm,” he marveled, and his fingers continued their exploration on their own accord, tiptoeing against the curve of her neck, feeling the unexpectedly firm jawbone, touching the shell of her delicate ear.

“ _Oh_ ,” Louise sighed, her cheeks reddening even more. She grabbed his wayward fingers, drawing them carefully away from her face. Her hand was warm too. “Well, I am going to be quite cold soon, if we do not get inside.” 

“The door!” D’Artagnan remembered and turned to face the wooden obstacle, which still stood stubbornly closed. He really should get it open; he was the King’s Musketeer.

“Yes, _that_ door.” Louise sounded put-upon, but she still held his hand, her small, slender fingers so warm against his. She had lovely fingers, although they already bore the marks of her labor. No one would ever mistake her for a noblewoman, if they took a look at her hands. His own were similarly scarred, had been from boyhood. He would open the door for her. 

“I will open the door for you,” d’Artagnan swore vehemently. No mere door would stand in his way; he was the – 

“It’s locked,” Louise said pointedly, tugging at his hand sharply, when d’Artagnan ventured to pull the brass ring on the door, “we just have to get someone to let us in and bear the indi…indignat…the indigetr – the _indignity_ of being discovered together at…at this hour, slightly tipsy – or roaring drunk in your case.” 

“I’m not drunk,” he claimed, indignant. If she thought he was roaring drunk, then she had obviously never witnessed Athos at the end of an extensive tavern crawl. D’Artagnan could still walk; he had all his wits still upon him. He was not morosely brooding over a woman best forgotten, trying to drown in his drink. So, he was not really drunk. 

“Brooding over who?” Louise was frowning, her eyes watching him curiously. D’Artagnan racked his brain: had he said all that about Athos aloud? And what else had he said that he hadn’t said? 

“I don’t think he treats Milady very well,” Louise sniffed, pouting. She released his hand. “He should be nicer to her.”

“Hah, if only you knew!” D’Artagnan took a little too sudden step forward and fell against the door with a resounding thud. His legs felt suddenly boneless, so he leaned heavily against the firm wood behind him, tipping his head back to look at the night sky. It was cloudless, inky black. The moon was missing.

Louise bit her lip, looking troubled. “Is he really her husband?”

“Uh, uh,” d’Artagnan nodded, “ _un_ fortunately.” His head hit the door painfully and he sighed theatrically. “It’s all very complicated. Or not. I don’t even know anymore.”

“I think –” Louise blushed, sounding embarrassed but defensive, “I think she loves him.” 

D’Artagnan snorted, “Oh, I’m sure.” It was kind of endearing how Louise defended her mistress, wanting to think the best of her. But then again, she was kind; her eyes gave her away. She had kind eyes. Constance’s eyes were kind too. But he would not think of that. Thinking of that would only lead to brooding, would only ruin the night. She was far away from him – far away because she wanted to be. 

Louise took an incensed step forward, claiming hotly, “You don’t know her.” She looked so lovely and was so warm and right there, with him. D’Artagnan grinned and snatched her hand, tugging her firmly against him. Louise was much smaller than him; her nose reached his chin, but somehow she still fitted perfectly into his arms. She shivered, but did not struggle nor did she raise any objections. But still, he wanted to be sure.

“Can I kiss you now?” 

Louise did not answer, or at least, not with words. She stood on her tiptoes, tilted her head and finally closed that last inch between them, pressing their lips against each other. It was a chaste, gentle, sweet kiss, and all the more precious for it. D’Artagnan felt something unravel in him; a hard fist that had kept his heart in a painful squeeze loosened its hold. He hadn’t even been aware of its existence, not until it was almost gone. He kissed her back, carefully, gratefully. 

His support shifted; suddenly the door was pushed open and d’Artagnan stumbled, Louise in tow, both of them trying to keep their balance. With great skill and _sheer Musketeerness_ he managed to stay wobbling on his feet. A frowning valet was standing in the doorway, uniform rumpled and hair tousled. 

“Oh, it’s _you_ ,” the man said with nearly incomprehensible French, looking them over with a disapproving gaze.

D’Artagnan turned towards Louise. “See, I got the door open.”

“Night, d’Artagnan,” Louise grinned and dashed past him, vanishing quickly inside the palazzo. D’Artagnan followed her, leaving the valet to close and lock the door behind them. It took some time to stumble through the ground floor and climb up the long, _long_ stairs to the servants’ quarters. He halted next to Porthos’ and Aramis’ room, wondering briefly if he should wake his friends and tell them what he had discovered.

_No_. He discarded the idea quickly. It could wait. He doubted they would appreciate him waking them up, but more importantly, he wasn’t in the mood to confront them. D’Artagnan wanted to bask in the very good day – and night – he had just had, not remember what a lying schemer he was. Tomorrow would come quickly enough. 

-o-

Athos closed the guestroom door quietly behind him, sighing with relief. They were finally back in the relative safety of Ca’ Monteverdi, had even managed to creep into their room with only the valet in night duty having seen them. Awkward questions would be postponed until the morning – until then, he planned to rest as much as he could. His ribs ached, his head throbbed and he felt chilled to the very bone.

Eager to shed the weapon belt that pressed against a particularly painful bruise, he tugged it quickly open and removed the belt from his waist. The unfamiliar rapier looked out of place in the scabbard, cumbersome and crude. Although Athos was firmly of the opinion that it was futile to get attached to possessions that would inevitably get lost or broken or wear down, he couldn’t deny that it irked him that he had lost his own, trusted sword. He knew he would never hold it again; it was probably in a Venetian canal. 

“You know, if they have any sense, it’s at the bottom of a canal – your rapier. And _my_ weapons too.” Anne was sitting on the bed, looking as tired as he felt. Athos put the belt to its usual place, at a grabbing distance from the settee. He couldn’t rouse any irritation about his apparent transparency. He had gotten used to the way she sometimes guessed – or maybe knew – his thoughts with alarming accuracy. 

“I trust you have others,” he parried, but it was half-hearted at best. 

“Naturally,” Anne confessed. Her sharp grin morphed quickly into a grimace as she tried to unfasten the ties of her bodice. “Damn!” Even in the faint candlelight the fingers of her right hand looked swollen, the skin stained with angry red, purple and blue. 

“I’ll get Aramis, he’ll know what to do.” Aramis would know how to ease her pain; he would fix her fingers, soothe the broken flesh. Athos was certain that despite all the animosity, his friend would not refuse to treat her. Aramis always took the care of people – both their body and soul – most seriously. 

“No!” Her hasty protest halted him before he even got to the door. She looked pale but determined. “I don’t want to see anyone,” Anne admitted, cradling her mangled fingers carefully. “I’ll get the Monteverdis to call a doctor in the morning. I…I’ll say we got robbed by _masked_ men.”

“More likely, they think that I did that to you.” 

“Probably. Does it bother you for them to think so?” Anne enquired curiously, her gaze suddenly too knowing for Athos to bear; he focused on the fastenings of his doublet instead, not answering. She snorted, “Well, at least it’ll look like I landed a few hits as well. You look almost as awful as I feel.” 

Athos tossed the doublet towards a chair, not caring how haphazardly it landed. He wanted to get horizontal as soon as possible and just forget about the whole horrible day. First however, he strode to the dressing room. Although he didn’t particularly care at the moment how filthy he was, Athos figured it would be best to at least wash the blood off his face. The small room was dark and cold, but the basin on the dresser was filled with clean water. He sank his hands in the tepid water and proceeded to scrub his face and neck. 

However awful the day had been, the ordeal had unmasked a new adversary, a player the Musketeers would have to face and take into account. This Gérard was dangerous; more than that he was the Cardinal’s agent. Athos knew – and yes, hoped – that their paths would cross again. The others needed to know about him, about what had happened, but – Athos imagined climbing the stairs, waking his friends, explaining everything, answering numerous questions, convincing them he wasn’t that hurt, that he was fine…He felt exhausted just thinking about it. All of it could wait until the morning. There was nothing they could do in the middle of the night; tomorrow they would plan and act. 

When he came out, Anne was standing in the middle of the bedroom floor, holding a glass decanter. Athos recognized it as one belonging to the array of exotic drinks displayed on the drawing room’s side table. She grinned, “Look what I found. Let’s hope this is the proper stuff.” She took a long drink from the vessel and sighed with pleasure. Athos was already reaching for the decanter; she relinquished it willingly. The alcohol was indeed strong, its burn chasing away the chill in his bones. Soon, they had drunk the small decanter empty. 

Athos pulled off his boots and eyed the hard settee with resignation. It was debatable if he would get _any_ rest that night. 

“I need –” Anne said behind him, her voice raw, devoid of any levity. Athos turned to look at her; she still stood in the middle of the room, fully dressed. “You have to help me with these.” She gestured vaguely at her chest and hip. It took Athos longer than it should have to understand her meaning. 

“I can wake your maid –”

“No! As I said, I don’t want anyone to see me.” She looked uncomfortable, but stubbornly continued to hold his gaze. Helping her undress was the last thing Athos wanted to do, but he understood. He didn’t particularly want to encounter anyone either in his current state. Athos steeled himself – there really was nothing for it, but to get the whole thing quickly over with. 

Anne stood still as stone, as he attacked the fastenings of her tight bodice, undoing the silk ribbons that kept the garment rigidly hugging her chest and waist. Athos did the untying almost mechanically, with expert fingers; he refused to think how, years earlier, he had loved to perform this very task for her. It didn’t take very long for the bodice to loosen, and soon after he could set it aside and concentrate on the fastenings of the overskirt. After a few untied knots and a good yank the dark blue skirt slid down, pooling on the ground. Anne was left wearing just her cotton underthings – and her slender leather boots. 

Without a word, she sat on the bed and raised her right leg. Obediently, Athos stooped down and pulled the boot off, quickly doing the same to the other one, leaving only thin stockings to cover her legs. “I can manage the rest,” Anne said to his utter relief, rising stiffly and going into the dressing room. Athos took his customary place on the settee, draping the thin blanket over his body. Wishing for deep sleep, he tried to quieten his clamoring thoughts, but with little success. The events of the day and Anne’s nearness wreaked havoc with his mind, raising questions and doubts and unwelcome emotions. 

Although Athos did not watch, keeping his eyes firmly on the ceiling, he was aware of Anne’s every movement, how she entered the room quietly, put out the candles and went to bed. For the next hour or so, Athos tossed and turned, trying to find a position that if not comfortable, would at least hurt less than others. His search seemed to be in vain; the settee’s hard surface aggravated his many bruises and hurts, prolonging the agonies of the day. 

“Stop it already!” Anne hissed from the darkness. “I can’t sleep listening to you squirming like a worm on a hook.”

A sharp retort was on Athos’ lips, for it was hardly his fault that the settee was an instrument of torture – he had slept on floors that were more comfortable – but before he could say anything, she continued, more calmly, “Come here.” 

His heart skipped a beat and then rushed forward, ignoring all his admonishments. Athos didn’t let himself hesitate for long; he reasoned that the bed certainly was big enough for two, and he could fall asleep on its soft mattress easily. It would be stupid to continue suffering on the settee. Studiously not thinking the numerous reasons why it was a bad idea, Athos settled beside her, careful to keep as much distance between them as was possible. He lay on top of the covering and draped his own blanket over him; it was one more barrier against her affecting nearness. 

They lay in the dark, mere inches from each other. The mattress was soft indeed, the pillows pure heaven, but still, he could not sleep. He could hear her breathing; see the outline of her body. Sleeping in the same bed – or at least, attempting to sleep – was strangely more intimate than the kiss they had shared on the balcony of Ca’ Gonzaga. It felt more dangerous too, more…fateful. As if he was teetering on the brink of something both familiar and unknown. 

Suddenly tired beyond any measure, he decided to take the plunge and found the words he had many times sounded out in the privacy of his own thoughts, but had not yet uttered aloud. “Tell me what really happened with Thomas – please.”

Anne was silent so long that he thought she would not answer. Then she whispered, hoarse, “Why? You won’t believe me, whatever I say.” 

Athos could not promise anything other than, “I’ll listen.” 

Another long silence, and his heart sank. All these years, he had agonized and doubted, almost positive that she had lied about how it all had happened, for he couldn’t believe Thomas would ever have tried to force himself on her, but still, he hadn’t been completely sure; a small seed of doubt had stayed, persistent. 

“Thomas…somehow he found out about my past,” Anne began, hushed, “and he confronted me. He said he would tell you everything and that you would throw me out of the house and your life. I said – I said that you would love me, regardless. He told me that if you were so foolish as to forgive me, he would personally make sure that I would get arrested.” Anne’s voice was level, but the raw emotion was shimmering just beneath the surface. She sounded like she was whispering the absolute truth, confessing to something she had never told before. Athos certainly had not heard this tale before. 

“It got ugly, fast. I was angry – what right had he to judge me? He didn’t know anything about my past and he was a hypocrite, betrothed to Catherine, but still screwing everything that moved. I hit him; he hit me back and shoved me against the desk. And I…the blade was there and I took it, I…” 

Athos held his breath, throat dry as dust. He could imagine the scene, saw all too well how it had happened. Thomas, quick to defend the honor of their name and house and the brother he thought had been deceived, and Anne, angry and desperate and quick-tempered. Together they had made a dangerous, volatile mix, more so because neither had never really liked each other. They had tolerated each other, had treated each other with cordiality, but Athos had known from the start there would be no easy friendship between his brother and his bride. It had saddened him then; it saddened him more now. If they had held some affection for each other, then perhaps things would have happened differently. 

“I don’t know…if I meant to kill him. I only know I did not plan to do it. It _happened_ ,” Anne confessed, subdued. “Athos…I am – I am sorry.” 

Not waiting for his reply, Anne turned abruptly, leaving Athos to stare at her back. He didn’t know what to say. For the rest of the night, they lay silent in the dark, mere inches from each other, Athos pondering over the uncertain truth and what, if anything, it changed.


	18. Missing

_Not sharp revenge, nor hell itself can find a fiercer torment than a guilty mind._

\- John Dryden (1631 - 1700) -

 

-o-

_The Third of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

Porthos jumped from the gondola to the pier in front of Ca’ Monteverdi, feeling vigorous and wide awake, despite having not slept much on the night before. He was in good humor, uncommonly so. Even the bright morning sun seemed to match his mood, warming his skin with the full power of the coming spring, keeping the chill of sea-air at bay.

He had left Laura Mancini’s house –and bed – most reluctantly, having finally conceded that he really should tell the latest developments concerning their mission to his companions, preferably before Monteverdis’ customary breakfast at nine o’clock. And so he had left the intoxicating courtesan amid the silken sheets of her lavish bed, letting her coax him back to her arms only once – alright, twice – before he had gotten out of the door. 

One of the valets let him inside the palazzo without a word, bestowing a disapproving look upon him. Porthos grinned back widely, fully aware of his disheveled appearance and what it implied. He sprang the stairs to the uppermost floor, smiling at every servant he came across. The big house was fully awake, and people were bustling about, already wholly immersed in their daily tasks.

Porthos pushed open the bedroom door with a bang, ready to rudely wake his friend, if Aramis was still slumbering. It was time to get up; it was a glorious day and Porthos had potentially good news. But instead of drowsy and irritated Aramis, Porthos found the other two of their group; Athos and d’Artagnan turned to face him with somber looks that were tinged with hope. Those looks itself were plenty of alarming, but the men’s appearances compounded it tenfold. D’Artagnan looked pale and sick, like he had the worst of hangovers, which was a look more commonly found in Athos’ face, whereas Athos looked like someone had given him a sound trashing; bruises adorned his face and the corner of his mouth was split open. 

Before Porthos could even begin to ask what had happened, Athos was already demanding, “Where have you been?” His voice was tight, eyes hard. 

“I stayed at Laura Mancini’s house,” Porthos said, a little defensively. He felt like he stood suddenly accused of something, but he didn’t have the slightest idea what that something was. Porthos bristled; he was a grown man and was under no obligation to get anyone’s approval regarding where – or with whom – he spent his nights. 

The slight hope Porthos had thought to have seen in Athos’ countenance had disappeared. Only the severe lines amid the dark bruises remained on his friend’s face. “Where is Aramis?” Athos asked, making Porthos’ heart miss a beat. 

“What do you mean?” The last vestiges of his good humor vanished and were replaced by a sinking feeling of dread and an aching worry. 

“Exactly what I said: _where is Aramis_? He is nowhere to be found,” Athos said gravelly, eyes still too hard, too remote. He looked at Porthos like he would at a stranger. 

“And it doesn’t seem like he has been here since yesterday, not after he left to follow the Duke,” d’Artagnan inserted, unease evident in his voice.

“You didn’t notice he was missing before _now_?” Porthos questioned sharply, his incredulity and concern getting the best of him. 

D’Artagnan colored. “I…I was with Louise. We came back late, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“And where were you?” Porthos turned towards Athos. He knew he sounded accusing, but couldn’t help it. How had they all failed to notice that one of them hadn’t come back from an important and potentially dangerous task? How had they all managed to fail Aramis so spectacularly? 

“Let’s just say I was somewhat…detained,” Athos remarked darkly. He then proceeded to tell them, as briefly as he could, how the Cardinal’s agent had ambushed and interrogated him and Milady. Porthos found a new target for his ire; of course the _damned_ Cardinal was sabotaging their mission. When they got back to Paris, he would put the fear of God into the scheming traitor, First Minister of France or not! 

“You think this Gérard took Aramis as well?”

“No…” Athos sounded almost defeated and that more than anything alarmed Porthos. “I think it is more probable that the Duke’s men noticed Aramis following them and they overpowered him. It would make sense that they would want to question him.” Questioning meant beatings and torture, but also that Aramis could still be alive. Porthos took hold of the faint hope, tried to nurse it stronger. They _would_ find Aramis alive. Any other outcome didn’t bear thinking about. 

“How are we going to find him? I mean… _where_ are we even going to start to look?” D’Artagnan put into words Porthos’ desperate thoughts. They didn’t know Venice; those disreputable establishments and shady neighborhoods where they normally found their information in Paris were unknown to them here. Abandoned buildings, empty warehouses, deserted cellars or anything that could be used to keep prisoners in – they had no idea where they were located, no inkling as to where Aramis could be imprisoned.

“We have to find some of the Duke’s men, follow them or get them to talk…otherwise we’ll be looking a needle in a haystack,” Athos said grimly, his hand resting on the pommel of the unfamiliar rapier he carried. Porthos touched the hilt of his own trusted sword, but the reassuring feel of hard steel did not offer its customary relief. 

“That’s risky,” d’Artagnan remarked pointedly, “and it could take time that we don’t have. There are no guarantees that the soldiers will lead us to Aramis or that they’ll know anything.” 

“Then do you have a better idea?” Athos asked, clearly frustrated. “We don’t know the area, we have no informants, no allies –” 

“Actually,” Porthos interrupted, the answer to their problems suddenly clear to him, “we may have a few allies after all.” He gripped the hilt of his rapier so hard the muscles of his hand ached with protest; he had to be right – it had to work – this was the answer – they would find Aramis. “Laura Mancini proposed on behalf of her employer that we should work together. Apparently we have a common goal; they oppose the deal the Duke has made with the Council of Ten and do not want that treaty leaving Venice. She refused to tell her employer’s name, but I bet he is someone influential, someone who knows everything that happens in this city and can help us find Aramis.” 

Porthos felt Athos’ intent look bore into him; he could practically see the gears shifting in the man’s head as his friend appraised all the information he had been given. Suddenly apprehensive that Athos would judge reliance on questionable outside help too risky for their mission, Porthos hastened to add, “It is our best chance to find Aramis, we have to take it. He has already been gone too long.” He knew that they were running out of hours, minutes, seconds, as they were standing there debating what to do. Aramis had already been a prisoner the whole night and at the worst most of the previous day; they didn’t have time for a lengthy search. 

“You think she was genuine? You believe she was telling the truth?” Athos asked, still considering.

Porthos nodded, “I think she meant what she said. They need our help – we can use that.” He truly believed that the courtesan’s offer had been sincere, but the truth was, even if he had any doubts, he would never have put them into words. Aramis deserved their swift and decisive action, not a dithering threat-assessment. 

“I agree with Porthos, this is our best chance,” d’Artagnan said vehemently, looking almost imploringly at Athos. Porthos felt a rush of fond gratitude towards the lad, glad once again that fate had brought the young man into the Musketeers’ garrison. 

“I know,” Athos sighed, looking bleak. “I just hope we don’t have to regret it later.”

“Then let’s go already.” Porthos turned and marched out of the room, ready to retrace his steps back to Laura Mancini’s house. What they would encounter there, he was not sure. But one thing he was certain of: he would never regret anything that would help him find Aramis, alive or otherwise. 

-o-

The old footman at the door of Laura Mancini’s house took the unannounced arrival of three foreigners, each one of them far too disreputable looking in appearance and in manner to pass for a gentleman, with an admirable straight-faced calm, as only those can who have seen it all and then some. If the man was surprised that the Frenchman his mistress had entertained the night before was now back with two more Frenchmen in tow, not the smallest sign or twitch on his face betrayed it. 

The callers’ simmering haste and anxiety was apparent for a trained eye, and so the footman did not make them wait in the hall for long, but soon came back to direct them to the richly decorated drawing room. He told them politely that the Signora would receive them shortly and gestured them to sit. The Musketeers stayed standing; they were too tense, too impatient and too apprehensive for anything other than an alert soldier’s stance. 

Athos took in the room and its opulence almost absent-mindedly, noting the wealth apparent in every furnishing and ornament. Laura Mancini was probably comfortably well-off, although it was generally dangerous to make assumptions based on appearances alone. Athos knew people who were adorned with jewels and dressed like royals but were poor as paupers. It all hinged on how good a mask one could maintain and how well one could play the game. Their own masks were cracking, well on their way to being cast aside entirely. Every moment it became harder – and more repellent – to keep to the story they had spun; the truth would soon come out, one way or another.

His thoughts circled inevitably back to Aramis, and he shifted impatiently, all too aware of the passing of precious minutes. Again, Athos cursed himself for his failure to check on his companions the night before, his tiredness and reluctance a poor reason that could cost Aramis’ life. They all had failed their friend inexcusably. The weight of the situation grew heavier each moment, threatening to crush his spirit as well as his heart. If Aramis was…if he was – 

Luckily Athos didn’t have to finish that impossible, terrifying thought, for at that moment the mistress of the house sauntered to the drawing room with an amused air, taking in the three Musketeers with far too sharp eyes. She was immaculately dressed, but still managed to convey an image that she had just gotten out of bed. Perhaps she had; it hadn’t been that long since Porthos had left her house. 

“Monsieur Porthos,” Laura Mancini said with a lilting voice, “I confess that I didn’t expect you to be back so soon. But perhaps I overestimated your companions’ need to debate my offer.” She smiled knowingly and gestured towards the settees. “Please sit, the servants will soon bring refreshments.” 

They stayed sanding, not in the mood to take part in the play of courteous hostess and her guests. Porthos took a step toward the courtesan, his eyes blazing with the passion of his agitation; he hardly ever saw any reason to hide what he was feeling. “Signora,” Porthos rasped, “we need to meet with your employer –now. It’s very important.” 

The courtesan looked first at Porthos and then at d’Artagnan; lastly she turned her shrewd eyes towards Athos. He met her gaze firmly, although her look made him vaguely uncomfortable, for she seemed to see much more than he wished. “Then you have decided to give the treaty to us, when you find it?” Laura Mancini asked, taking Porthos’ abrupt plea in stride. 

“We’ll discuss that with your employer,” Athos said before his companions could agree with her. Porthos looked sharply at him, but didn’t contradict his words. D’Artagnan pursed his lips and stayed silent. 

The courtesan gave a small laugh, shaking her head so the golden tresses cascaded like a curtain around her face. “I’m afraid I already made the terms of the offer quite clear to your friend; without your word there will be no meeting.”

Dismayed, Porthos went to her and drew her small hand into his. “It’s the matter of life and death,” he beseeched, “we have no time to waste.” 

“Everything is always the matter of life and death,” Laura Mancini snorted, but then her eyes softened slightly and she took the palm of Porthos’ hand to her lips, bestowing upon it a small, light kiss. “But you have managed to convince me nonetheless.” Not for a minute Athos believed she had changed her mind for any sentimental reason; he suspected she had been quite ready to give in after a few token protestations. She knew they were desperate enough for her – and her employer – to have the upper hand. To her it was clear that they had already all but agreed to her terms. Athos feared she would be proven to be right. 

“Wait here,” Laura Mancini commanded and then swiftly left the room. The Musketeers could do nothing but follow her command and hope that their gamble would pay off. Athos kept a tally of the passing minutes, time seeming to somehow both crawl slowly forward and rush ahead too quickly. He estimated how long it would take for the courtesan to send word for her employer and for him to arrive to meet them, all his calculations pointing to the same answer: _too bloody long_. 

Porthos was pacing back and forth nervously, periodically eyeing the decanter of wine on the side table with longing, but he made no move to help himself to it. D’Artagnan had moved to the window, looking outside with his back turned to his companions. Athos wanted to say something to them, an encouragement or an apology, but the right words kept eluding him, and so he stood rigidly facing the door, waiting. None of them said a word. 

Finally the door opened and two men stepped inside the drawing room. Athos was not particularly surprised to see Antonio Gabrieli, better known as _Il Rosso_. The other man was a stranger, although there was something familiar about him. He was the complete opposite of the tall and broad shouldered Inquisitor; small in stature and gaunt looking, the man had a pair of inquisitive eyes on a blotchy face. As _Il Rosso_ sat down on one of the settees, his companion stayed near the closed door, silent but watchful.

“I hear you have come to face some…difficulties,” Antonio Gabrieli began, dark eyes meeting the hard stares of the Musketeers without flinching. “I hope that I can be of some help.” 

Not one to beat around the bush, Porthos went straight to the point. “Our friend is missing, probably taken somewhere for questioning. I think you know – or can easily find out – where he is.” He came to stand in front of the Inquisitor, glowering. Not the least bit intimidated, _Il Rosso_ smiled sardonically. “Well, that is a problem, but how you think I would know something about it…”

“You said that it is your duty to know everything,” Athos remarked, gritting his teeth. He was dead tired of the endless games everyone in Venice seemed to enjoy playing. 

“If you recall, I also said that I’ll always get things done in my way,” the Inquisitor answered sharply, eyes hard and merciless. 

“Then what you do want?” D’Artagnan’s voice was flat, his impatience hidden beneath a stony expression. 

“I want your _word_ that you’ll give the treaty to me,” _Il Rosso_ claimed, his tone making it clear there was no room for negotiation of the terms. 

“We don’t have it.” Athos tried to suppress the frustration and anger that were threatening to take hold of him; he hated being driven into a corner. The treaty the Council of Ten had signed would be important evidence of the Duke’s treason and he was tasked to find it and deliver it to his King. The Musketeers did not have any authorization to relinquish it to an agent of foreign country instead. Morally, and by the bonds that made them brothers, they had good justification for it, but he knew that would not have swayed the King had he been there. But luckily the decision was theirs to make, and Athos knew his choice just as he knew that the others’ will matched his. 

“I have no doubt you’ll get it, especially if we work together.” 

“And what about the Duke’s treaty with Savoy?” Athos asked, apprehensive. It was bad enough to give up one piece of evidence, but to lose both was akin to treason. 

“Oh, that you can keep,” Antonio Gabrieli grinned wolfishly. “I want the Duke to get his proper dues, but as far away from here as possible.”

“Then we’ll accept your offer,” Porthos said firmly. The solemn look on his face told Athos his friend was fully aware that they were moving onto a very dubious path by choosing Aramis over the mission. 

“Your word,” the Inquisitor demanded, looking at Athos intently. 

“You have my word,” Athos swore heavily. In the end, the choice was not much of a choice after all. How could he have ever refused, knowing he would be almost certainly condemning Aramis to a violent death? 

_Il Rosso_ looked pleased and relaxed slightly, leaning against the back of the settee. He seemed to know that Athos would never break a word he had given. “You’re right – your friend was ambushed and taken in for questioning by the Duke’s men.”

“How long have you known this?” Athos asked quietly, his whole body throbbing with violence that clamored to be unleashed.

“That is irrelevant,” Antonio Gabrieli said dismissively. “What matters, is our next move. Your friend’s capture is most unfortunate; the Duke and his co-conspirators now most certainly know what you are here for. The Duke will be more cautious, and Gonzaga and his cohorts will guard him jealously. It is no longer feasible to steal the treaties here.”

“You don’t have any sway over Gonzaga? Why can’t you just arrest him and the rest of them?” D’Artagnan demanded angrily. 

A look of distaste flitted across _Il Rosso’s_ face. “I’m afraid that I and my fellow colleagues don’t see eye to eye in this matter. They will follow the Council’s dictates, heedless of the consequences to Venice. As a result, my hands are rather tied.” 

“You leaked the information about the Duke’s plans to the Cardinal.” It all made sense now; from the very beginning Athos had found it hard to believe that the Cardinal had a genuine spy among the Venetians that the Inquisitors knew nothing about. 

Antonio Gabrieli just smiled wryly, neither denying nor confirming the accusation. “The Duke is just itching to leave, but he’ll take part in the Carnival’s end celebrations tomorrow with the new Dodge; then he will attend Holy Mass on Ash Wednesday and travel the day after that. The best moment to act is when the Duke is on the road and carrying the treaties with him. You will ambush him just outside Mestre with the help of my men, search for evidence of a most traitorous plot and arrest him. You will then hand the treaty to my men and go back to Paris with the Duke – and never come back here again.”

“Very well,” Athos agreed, although it rankled to follow _Il Rosso’s_ plan, despite it being a well-thought-out one. “But first, we are going to free Aramis. Where is he?”

“If you must,” the Inquisitor sighed, his tone suggesting the endeavor was nothing but folly. “Your friend is being kept in one of Gonzaga’s warehouses. Leon will show you where it is.” The small man detached himself from the wall; Athos had almost forgotten his presence, so well had he kept himself silent and motionless at the fringes of the room. 

“Any messages for me can be left here; Signora Mancini will make sure that I get them,” Antonio Gabrieli instructed. Athos nodded tightly, not bothering to reply. D’Artagnan and Porthos were already half-way out of the room, trying to catch up with the ever-flowing time. Athos followed them hastily, his troubled mind settling into the cold calm that always preceded a coming battle. 

They had made a deal with the devil, and Athos didn’t doubt that it would come to haunt them somewhere on the road, sooner or later. But for the moment, it seemed a fair price to pay for getting to give the day of reckoning to those who had taken Aramis. He gripped the hilt of the sword, smiling grimly. The price would be worth every slash of blade, every drop of blood drawn. He would make sure of it.


	19. Fury

_If you prick us, do we not bleed?_  
_If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us_ ,  
_do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge?_

\- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), _The Merchant of Venice_ \- 

-o-

_The Third of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The gondola glided solemnly beneath the bright midday sun, carrying its four silent passengers unerringly to their destination. The vessel passed numerous others of its kind, the gondolier expertly guiding it under low bridges and through narrow side canals deeper into the Venetian maze. D’Artagnan did not know where exactly they were; _Il Rosso’s_ man had told them the warehouse, where Aramis was being kept prisoner, was near the famed _Arsenale_ shipyards, but d’Artagnan had no idea if they were really going in the right direction. Although the gondola weaved forward smoothly, the ride seemed to take forever. And time was something they did not have. 

D’Artagnan resisted the urge to make sure his weapons were in order; he had already done so twice and knew the task was just an outlet for his impatience and anxiety. Even now guilt and fear gnawed at him, fanned the indignation into hot fury. He had failed miserably both as a Musketeer and as a friend, prolonging inadvertently but undeniably Aramis’ misery, maybe even contributing to his – 

There had to be a way to get to the blasted warehouse faster! As if hearing his thoughts, Porthos turned slightly towards d’Artagnan and grabbed his forearm with his strong grip. His friend’s face was dead-calm, only the eyes revealed the storm that was raging behind the façade. They changed determined looks, united in their resolve to avenge Aramis and bring him home at any cost. 

“We’re nearly there,” Leon announced to the utter relief of his companions. The small man did not shift his watchful gaze from the boats and walkways they passed, looking intently at every masked and unmasked person they came across. With first glance Leon perhaps looked harmless, but his sharp, beady eyes certainly kept d’Artagnan on his toes. He didn’t trust the man or his employer – hell, he didn’t trust _anyone_ he had met in Venice. 

The gondola thudded against the pier, and they dashed on to the narrow walkway. D’Artagnan touched the hilt of his rapier, making a small, silent prayer to God, to Lady Luck, to anyone who would listen. _Let Aramis be here and alive. Let us be victorious._

A short walk on the stony bank of the canal, and the walkway soon broadened and became lined with long brick buildings. The buildings had almost no windows, but each one of them had at least two large doors, that faced their own piers. There were a few small boats moored to some of the piers, but the area seemed eerily silent, seemingly abandoned. For a moment d’Artagnan was certain of an ambush, but then he remembered that all the locals took a midday break, even most of the workmen. 

Leon signaled them to stop, and they retreated to the shadow of the closest building. “It’s the second to last door.” He pointed onwards, towards the end of the row of buildings.

Athos nodded grimly and said, “Let’s do this smartly and reconnaissance the place first.” Porthos raised an irritated eyebrow, no doubt itching to storm inside the warehouse, and d’Artagnan wanted nothing more than to follow him. But they had rushed into too many buildings not to know that going in without knowing anything of the situation could prove to be disastrous; it could cost Aramis his life. The better they were prepared, the better they could pull the rescue off without any unpredictable problems. 

“I’ll find somewhere I can see inside the place,” Porthos promised gruffly, setting quickly off. D’Artagnan on the other hand lumbered ahead on the walkway, taking his time, pretending to be just another loitering drunk. He walked all the way to the last warehouse, where the walkway ended, taking note on any movement on both sides of the canal. But all was quiet, all was still. The area clearly didn’t have any residential houses or taverns, the crates and sacks left piled on the walkway the only signs of arrested life.

Soon d’Artagnan informed the others that he had not seen anything suspicious – although some might think that in itself to be suspicious – while Porthos had more discouraging news. There was no possibility of seeing inside the warehouse and the only way in seemed to be via the front door. The heavy iron lock on the door was open, but there was no telling if the door was bolted from the inside. 

“Well, in that case, there’s no reason not to be polite,” Athos mused darkly. “Let’s knock and then _knock_.” The Musketeers changed wry glances, and d’Artagnan felt the tight band around his heart ease a little. Together, they would succeed – they always did. No more words or planning were needed, and as one, they turned to go. Leon, however, did not move but continued to rest against the wall. 

“Are you coming?” D’Artagnan queried impatiently. 

The man raised his eyebrows almost lazily. “Oh, this is entirely your affair,” he said. No help would come from him, at least not anything more strenuous than keeping watch and making sure their gondolier waited for them. 

“Fine,” Porthos growled, and then added quietly, “He _better_ be there.” His dark look promised a lot of pain for the spy, if the man had led them astray. Not waiting for Leon’s answer, they strode to the door he had indicated, pistols already loaded and drawn. 

Heart thundering, d’Artagnan tried to carefully push the door open, but it didn’t budge. The others settled onto their places, flanking him. A tense nod from Athos, and d’Artagnan banged the door. The sound boomed in the walkway, breaking the unnatural quietude of the area. 

For an all too long moment nothing happened, but then a male voice said from the inside, “ _C'est qui_?” 

“A message from the Duke!” Athos barked briskly, altogether bypassing the question of his identity. His voice held just the right amount of irritation and importance; soon there was the sound of a bolt being lifted. 

The door had hardly moved an inch, when Porthos rammed it open and rushed inside with a furious battle cry, d’Artagnan close at his heels, musket at the ready. However, it seemed those inside were also ready for them: a shot whistled right past his ear, only little to the left and it would have blown his head off. Momentarily deaf and blind from the boom and flash of exploding gunpowder, his sheer instincts took over. D’Artagnan plunged to the side, seeking cover, eyes frantically searching for a target, taking in the scene with a rush of quick, disjointed images. 

There were four – no, five – men, weapons drawn – another shot close, hitting the wall – Aramis, on the floor against the pillar, _Aramis_ –

D’Artagnan fired his musket, aiming at one of the men rushing towards him, but the shot missed and he let the gun drop, drawing his rapier, meeting the man in a fury of cutting steel. Twist and parry and _attack attack attack_ , slashing and jabbing and crushing.

Against the pillar, Aramis – manacled, beaten and bruised and pale, blood on the face, blood on the shirt, blood on the skin, looking half-dead, looking _defeated_.

Something fractured beyond any endurance, shattered. D’Artagnan lost himself for a while: there was only the red hot haze of blood, the gratifying burn of violent movement, the furious inferno of vengeance. All of him, limbs and muscles and bone, all the strength in them, were in that moment for only one single purpose – to hurt, to kill. It didn’t matter if a blade cut him, if gunpowder exploded too near, if a fist broke his teeth; he attacked, pushed, lunged, struck and charged, relentlessly, mercilessly. 

He could have fought forever, would have _liked_ to fight until nothing remained of either his opponents or of himself, but soon the men were on the ground, defeated. It took a moment for the red haze to dissipate, for the violence to draw out of him; he felt drained, strangely empty, his hands shaking a little. 

All of the men were dead, but d’Artagnan couldn’t tell which ones he had killed. He clenched at his rapier tightly, willing the tremors to subside. Uneasy, he looked at the others, wondering if they had noticed how he had disappeared and come back. He wondered if it was normal, if it happened to all soldiers eventually. 

Porthos was already kneeling in front of Aramis, having released him from the manacles, and was calling their friend’s name with a hoarse voice, checking his injuries with careful hands. Aramis looked terrible; one eye was swollen shut, his face was a collection of different colored bruises, and his right arm was obviously either cracked or broken. What other injuries he had beneath the ragged and dirty clothes, d’Artagnan didn’t even want to imagine. 

“He needs a doctor, _now_ ,” Porthos exclaimed, still trying to rouse Aramis. “Hey, Aramis. We are here. Aramis – just look at me.”

“Let’s take him back to Ca’ Monteverdi,” Athos said, voice far too cold-calm to be anything but a loud sign of his inner rage. “A doctor might already be there; if not, the Monteverdis can get him there quicker than we can find one on our own.”

At that moment, Aramis stirred. He grasped Porthos’ hand and muttered, “What took you so long?” It was said in jest, but there was real puzzlement and hurt underneath it. D’Artagnan swallowed, his throat uncommonly dry. No words could leave his mouth. 

Porthos squeezed Aramis’ hand. “Yeah, it’s a long story. I’ll tell you all about it later. Let’s just get you out of here.”

“Why?” Aramis rasped. “I was just…getting…comfortable.”

Porthos chuckled darkly, “To me this place lacks seriously in hospitality.” 

“Let’s go,” Athos commanded. He was still holding his rapier and musket, posture tense, eyes alert. Porthos hoisted Aramis onto his back; all of them winced, when the movement made their wounded friend moan from pain. D’Artagnan picked up his musket and followed the others, securing their rear. Still oddly numb, he tried to focus, knowing they were nowhere near safety yet. He doubted they would be until they were back in Paris, in their own garrison.

As they walked briskly to the waiting gondola, d’Artagnan’s eyes slid to watch Aramis’ slumped form, the dried rust-red blood on his shirt arresting his gaze. They had their friend back, they had succeeded, and those who had hurt Aramis were dead. Still, it didn’t feel any kind of victory. 

-o-

He made himself watch as the doctor cut the shirt deftly off Aramis, revealing his battered and bruised upper body. Every violent mark left on the flesh was a desecration, a glaring sign of Athos’ failure. He stood in the corner furthermost from the bed, where his wounded friend lay, carefully staying out of the way of the doctor and an old servant, who had come to help. Athos couldn’t do anything else; he had no skill for healing or comforting. At least the doctor seemed competent enough. 

Earlier, luck had been for once on the Musketeers’ side, when they had arrived at Ca’ Monteverdi just as the doctor was leaving. The silver haired man had taken one look at Aramis and had wordlessly turned back inside. He had followed them upstairs, giving orders to Monteverdis’ servants with absolute authority. Soon Aramis had been laid on the bed, clean sheets and warm water had been brought to the room, and an arsenal of bandages, tonics and salves had been arrayed on the side table.

Porthos had claimed the free spot nearest to the bed, anxiously watching over the doctor’s ministrations. His hand rested on Aramis’ shoulder, wordlessly offering comfort. D’Artagnan was leaning against a wall, a vacant look in his eyes. When the small burn marks on Aramis’ arms were exposed, Porthos cursed vehemently and d’Artagnan smashed his fist against the wall; the fury was catching fire anew. 

Athos too wanted to hit something very badly, wanted to go back to that warehouse and wait for those that would come to see why their companions hadn’t come back from torturing the Musketeer, wanted to release his wrath upon them in all its terrible glory. It didn’t matter that five of the Duke’s men were already dead, the Captain among them; it infuriated him that he could never punish the man, who really bore most of the blame. Royal heir or not, the Duke could rot in hell, for all Athos cared – he only regretted that he couldn’t be the one to send the pompous man there. 

The door opened hesitantly and Giovanni Monteverdi peeked inside. The Venetian merchant blanched, when he caught a glimpse of Aramis behind the people, who were tending to him. “Oh, this is most…unfortunate…,” the man mumbled, uncharacteristically inarticulate. 

Reluctantly, Athos moved to intercept their host, pushing him firmly back into the corridor and closing the door behind them. Aramis didn’t need any more people gawking over him, the doctor didn’t need his work interrupted and Porthos didn’t need any excuse to explode into violence. It was Athos’ unsavory duty to explain the situation to their host so that they weren’t thrown out of their current lodgings. 

“Whatever happened?” Signore Monteverdi asked, looking genuinely worried. 

“I’m afraid my friend fell into some rough crowd yesterday. They didn’t take it kindly that he didn’t have enough money to pay the sum he had lost playing cards.” Athos had been concocting a plausible story even before they had found Aramis; telling the truth was, of course, out of the question. “We located him this morning and retrieved him. Rest assured that the matter is now wholly closed.”

“Oh dear, that’s terrible, but I dare say your friend has learned his lesson,” Giovanni Monteverdi said gravely. “I never gamble more than I have on my person, and never with any disreputable characters.” He then fell silent for a moment, fiddling nervously with the button of his doublet. “Are you…quite certain that the incident has been…resolved?”

“Completely,” Athos lied. 

“Good, good,” the merchant nodded and then paled again, when he looked at Athos. Only then Athos remembered that he himself looked more than worse for wear. “And you and the Contessa – I’m so mortified that this should happen in Venice! If those brutes are ever caught…It was the fog, it always brings all the criminals out of their holes.”

“What’s happened has happened,” Athos said, wanting to cut the conversation short. He didn’t know the details of the tale Anne had told the Monteverdis’ and didn’t want to contradict her unintentionally. 

“You fought bravely, I hear.” Signore Monteverdi looked very much like he wanted to hear more about the scandalous robbing of the Conte and Contessa de la Fére. “But that’s as it should be – a husband should always defend his wife.”

Athos kept silent, wondering if the man really believed all the drivel he had been fed. 

“I have been assured that she is now resting comfortably; our doctor is the very best in Venice and was most attentive to her. I am certain that soon she is quite recovered,” Giovanni Monteverdi said, smiling reassuringly. 

“I am in your debt,” Athos acknowledged, inclining his head. 

“No, no, it’s my pleasure…or not exactly a pleasure on this occasion,” their host exclaimed wryly, and continued then more somberly, “however I can help, just make it known and I’ll see to it.”

“I am grateful…as a matter of fact, please excuse me – I should go see my wife.” 

“Of course! Please convey my good wishes to her.”

With that they parted, Athos grimly and Signore Monteverdi convivially, his good-humored nature seemingly wholly restored. Athos could have gone back to Aramis’ and Porthos’ room, but his legs carried him down the stairs instead. To his annoyance, on the fourth-floor landing he came face to face with the mistress of the house. Signora Monteverdi pursed her lips, looking at him with obvious distaste. He bowed hurriedly, feeling like he stood under judgment. 

“I took the liberty of having your things moved to another room. I think you’ll be much more comfortable there.” Her voice was cold; unlike her husband, she certainly didn’t believe that he and Anne had been robbed. Athos’ eyes went involuntary to the corridor behind her, towards the guestroom. Elena Monteverdi's expression tightened. “The room is on the same floor as your companions’; the third door on the left. Do you think you can manage to find it on your own or do I call a servant to show you?” 

“You are too kind – I’ll find it,” he answered curtly, suddenly almost blindingly angry – towards her, towards the Duke, towards the whole damn city, but mainly just towards himself. Athos reminded himself that her suspicion was perfectly natural; after all, he had been nothing but a cold and gruff husband underneath her roof. It was no wonder she thought of him guilty of abuse as well. And wasn’t that the very picture he had wanted to convey? But however good the reasons, that particular mask was growing too heavy and cumbersome to bear. 

The Signora nodded tersely, but didn’t move. Athos pivoted on his heels and headed back upstairs, mind churning with uncharitable thoughts. He found himself back in front of the door he had exited earlier, but hesitated, uncommonly undeceive and reluctant. His friends didn’t need him there; he could be of no help, no use to anyone. And the last time he and Aramis had spoken, it had been with anger. He couldn’t go back inside, not yet. 

Athos turned around, suppressing uncomfortable thoughts about cowardice and avoidance, telling himself that he was being prudent, logical. Which brought to mind: he ought to go to his new room and make sure that all of his things had really been brought there.

Instead, his feet led him again down the stairs, to their – to _her_ door.


	20. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I changed the rating to explicit. Just in case...

_If ever two were one, then surely we. If ever man were loved by wife, then thee._

\- Anne Bradstreet (1612 - 1672) -

-o-

_The Third of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The door closed behind the mistress of the house, and Anne let herself exhale heavily, let the mask drop as the exhaustion took over her whole body at one fell swoop. Elena Monteverdi’s concern and compassion had drawn almost all the air from the room, had scraped Anne’s insides bloody and raw. Being on the receiving end of care from someone, who she could have called a friend in another life, was both stifling and bittersweet; it woke memories that were better left in dark oblivion. And it made her feel brittle, undeserving of such kindness. 

Relieved to be alone once more, Anne sat on the unmade bed, feeling every hurt as keenly as if they were freshly made. The doctor had assured her that no bones – aside from the fingers of her right hand – were broken, that the bruises and cuts would heal, that she would feel infinitely better tomorrow or the day after that. Anne had almost scoffed aloud that _she_ could have made that diagnosis; it was her broken, mangled fingers that worried her. If those did not heal right, her everyday life, her very livelihood, would become much more difficult to manage. 

Her right hand was just a lump of cloth now, a cumbersome bundle of dressings that covered every bit of the hand from the fingernails to the wrist. The broken fingers had been wrenched back so the bones could knit in their proper places; it had been an excoriating pain like no other, made only bearable by the fact that Athos and his insufferable friends hadn’t been there to witness her screaming the house down. 

It seemed the Musketeers had more pressing problems than Anne at the moment: she had heard the commotion moving up the stairs and had soon got all the gossip from Louise. Aramis was being tended to, having been quite badly beaten, possibly tortured. Obviously the Duke or Gérard – although Anne would place her bets with the Duke – had taken the Musketeer and tried to get information out of him. The game was clearly drawing to its end, time was running out, and here she was, with only _one_ functioning hand. 

At least Athos would now leave her alone, no doubt keeping constant vigil by his friend’s bedside. Elena had moved his things to another room, out of misguided concern for Anne. Athos would probably be ecstatic; he wouldn’t have to suffer the settee – or sharing her bed – anymore. Just as well, she couldn’t bear to be so near him. Anne shivered, told herself it was because the room was cool and she was wearing just a dressing gown over her simple linen chemise. It had nothing to do with her confessing the truth about Thomas, leaving herself vulnerable, telling Athos how sorry she was…

After hearing the truth, Athos hadn’t said anything. When she had woken that morning, he had been gone. Maybe he didn’t believe her. Maybe her confession didn’t change anything. Whatever he thought – she _didn’t_ care. It was too little, too late. 

A careful knock on the door disrupted her thoughts, made her heart speed up. 

“Yes?” She rose and clumsily fastened up the dressing gown with her left hand. 

The door opened and Athos stepped into the room. Anne was struck how he looked, more than ever before, like a true soldier, a man accustomed to violence. It was not because of his unkempt hair or the serviceable, unpolished clothes nor the bruises and cuts adorning his face. It was not even because of the full array of weaponry he was carrying on his person. It was his eyes, cold and steely, that made her stomach roll with unease.

Athos came to stand in the middle of the room, keeping a good distance between them. His heavy gaze settled over her, oppressing and stifling as impending storm clouds, pregnant with rain and thunder. She met his eyes firmly, something in her reveling in the coming confrontation.

“I have been banished into another room.” He tried for an ironic tone, but instead of wry, managed to only sound bitter. 

“I know.” All her aches had disappeared beneath the rush of blood, flushing her with warmth. Always her body betrayed her, when faced with Athos at his most intensive, most dangerous. She simply could not help it – he made her _throb_. 

“The Signora is worried that I will hurt you…more than I apparently already have.” Athos’ look continued to pierce through her, challenging and demanding. But beneath his eyes’ steely grey, Anne could now see the wealth of anger, frustration and guilt he tried so unsuccessfully to mask with coldness. 

“At least she only suspects you of being a terrible husband and not a foreign spy betraying his hosts’ trust.”

Athos grimaced, his disgusted look conveying loudly his opinion of the deception he had to play a part in. “All these masks…this acting to be what you are not, pretending and deceiving…how do you do it? It’s exhausting.”

“It’s just a skill, among many others,” Anne admonished him sharply and then amended, “When it’s a matter of survival, you do what you have to do.”

He stepped so much closer to her, intense eyes all the while examining her face, searching for something only he knew. “And what is behind the mask?” Anne took an involuntary step backwards, hitting the bedpost; he followed. “Who is the real Anne? Or is that even your given name?”

“You _see_ me,” she confessed against her will, hoarse. Athos seemed to be the only one still, who could see behind her mask, who could drag forth all of her – past and present – to the surface. He made her feel raw and aching and all too real; it was dangerous and painful and would only end in her – and his – destruction once more. And still she could do nothing to stop it, not when he looked at her so, not when he talked to her thus, with such _emotion_ in his voice. All her scars were there for him to see, all the ugliness and the foulness. 

“Do I really?” He murmured, disbelief evident in his husky voice. 

_Yes!_ She wanted to scream, but turned around, away from the punishing weight of his stare, suddenly too overwhelmed, too bare. Damn him to everlasting hell! She had known it was a horrible idea to talk about Thomas, to let those words out – it had badly tilted her center, made her weak. It was intolerable.

The ensuing silence was filled with the mad beat of her heart, _thump thump thump_ , pleading _leave leave leave_ me. 

A leather clad arm snaked against her ribs, and his hand took hold of her right forearm. A warm breath on her neck made her skin tingle; he had to be very near, just behind her. If she were to lean just a little backwards, she would bump into his broad chest. 

“How are your fingers?” Athos asked, voice quiet. His own fingers edged closer to the bandaged hand, thumb coming to press gently against her wrist. Beneath his touch, her heart thudded like a speeding beat of drums. 

“They will heal,” she forced herself to answer, keeping very still. Caught between the sturdy bedpost and Athos’ larger frame, she was effectively trapped. Like a prey in a snare.

“I will kill him,” he confessed calmly, with absolute certainty. The careful weight of his hand against hers was at odds with the hardness of his words.

Anne closed her eyes, the sudden lump lodged in her throat making it hard to swallow. “Not if I kill him first.” His other arm came around her, clicking the snare shut. The hand settled flat against her belly, the touch burning through two layers of flimsy fabric to her very core. Once, it had been a habit of his to touch her like this, to wish, to imagine his child growing inside of her. It flamed her still, although those dreams had long since passed. Carefully, she leaned slightly backwards until her back touched his solid body.

They didn’t move for a long moment; he continued to hold her as she rested against him. His hands did not stray, but anchored her in place, his callused fingers and palms a steadfast pressure on her belly, her wrist. She breathed deep and felt how his chest rose in return. It was too _much_. Anne felt both safe and in the utmost danger, she belonged there and yet she did not; she was wildly out of place. 

_What are we doing_ , she thought desperately. 

“I’m sorry,” Athos whispered right behind her ear, voice thick. His hand cupped feather-light the fingers swathed in dressings, so careful not to hurt them further. She didn’t know if he apologized because he hadn’t been able to help her, when she had been tortured by Gérard, or if he was also sorry for everything else – all the hurts _he_ had really caused her. Suddenly, Anne needed to look him in the eyes, to know the expression on his face, to _see_ him. 

She twisted in his embrace, turned around, and Athos let her, relinquishing his hold. For a small moment regret cut sharply through her; she already missed his touch. Under her hunting gaze, he took a step back, turned his eyes away. Anne however had seen enough. 

Athos was furious, but largely towards none other than himself. He hated not being in control and so far in Venice, _nothing_ was in his control. Her fingers, whatever injuries Aramis had, they were all proof to Athos of his failure. He felt responsible – and inadequate. She just knew, that as always, the whole weight of the mission rested on his shoulders, and he would never think it could be any other way. And beneath all this, the everlasting shadow – the pain she had inflicted, the scar she had opened anew with the truth. 

Her heart ached. Suddenly, taking her completely by surprise, her heart _hurt for_ him, like it hadn’t ached for anyone in six years or perhaps even more. Anne remembered how much she had loved him; how she would have done anything for him, how she had done everything because of him. She remembered how much she had hurt him, and knew with visceral self-loathing that she was going to hurt him still more. 

Anne closed the distance between them, and now he looked like the one caught in a snare. She touched the back of his tense neck with her unbroken fingers, pressed them firmly against his skin and said, “It is not your fault.” He stayed still as stone. She stared unseeing at his jaw, pushed the next words out with a violent will, hurled them out with force, for if she did not say them now, she never would. “You’re not responsible for me – or for anyone else.”

“Would that be so,” Athos laughed ruefully. Then cautiously, he took hold of her chin and tipped it up, forcing her to meet his tearing look. _What are we doing_ , she wanted to ask, but did not. She was done with words; she pressed herself against him and brushed his lips with hers. 

The ensuing kiss went from slow and gentle to hungry and urgent in a heartbeat. Athos made a strangled noise that flooded her with heat, and then they were entangled together, arching into each other, plundering the taste and feel of wet mouths and warm skin. 

Stunned and shaking, Anne yanked the hairs at the nape of his neck, wanting him closer still. He retaliated by nipping her lip with his teeth, one of his ah so clever hands pressing into the curve of her backside, pulling her flush against him. The hard steel of his rapier dug into her stomach, and her right hand was awkwardly trapped between their bodies, but she couldn’t have cared less. 

He slotted his thigh between her legs and she surged against it, letting out a helpless sound of wanting. Limbs entwined, it still didn’t feel close enough. As he ravaged her mouth, Athos kept her firmly against him, and she agreed with him wholeheartedly, but her stupid hand – she whimpered from sudden pain as her fingers protested against being crushed. He loosened his hold, panting. Don’t you dare stop now, she silently demanded, _begged_. But he only reached for the fastenings of her dressing gown and tugged the garment open. And god, there was that slow grin that drove her absolutely mad. 

The dressing gown slid to the floor, and Anne stood there in nothing but her chemise, burning under his dark gaze. She grasped the hem with her usable hand, drew it up an inch, another; watched with deep satisfaction as Athos’ eyes followed her every move, ravenous with desire. 

Suddenly she stopped, letting the fabric fall back into place. As his mouth tightened with disappointment, her smile grew wider, wicked. “Get those off,” she gasped out and gestured at his clothes, challenging. It was only fair; Anne wasn’t going to be the only one naked. 

Agonizingly slowly his hand went to the clasp of his belt, halting there. Both of them knew that it was the last moment to desist from this madness, the last moment to stop. She held her breath, suddenly terrified – scared that he would continue and equally scared that he would turn away. Athos held her gaze for a small moment and then purposefully stripped all the weapons off. Breathless, she watched him undress without any hint of self-consciousness, until he stood before her only in his braies and shirt. The evidence of his want was jutting out obscenely, tenting the greyish fabric. 

And then Athos was crowding against her again, guiding her relentlessly backwards to the bed. Anne found herself on her back, sidling further up the mattress, at the same time scrabbling frenetically for him. Soon he was crouched above her, bracketing her completely, but still maddeningly holding his body separate from hers. Anne voiced her displeasure at this lamentable state of affairs, but it came out as an incoherent, choked-off noise. She tugged at his firm shoulder, wanting all of him against all of her, _now_. 

Athos gave a low laugh and settled her right hand carefully by her head, the message clear: _keep this here_. He took her left hand in his, drew it up above her head and held it there with a strong grip. Then the infernal man took the silk ribbon from around her throat, bent his dark head and breathed heavily against the scars on her neck, mouthed the path the rope had burned on her skin, and the silent _sorry_ was loud and clear in every reverent kiss. Anne keened and trembled, her eyes fluttering shut. 

He took his sweet time nuzzling her throat, as if they had all the time in the world; then his mouth descended to her neckline, tracing the borders of her skin and chemise. Slowly, his hand slid against her bare thigh, pushing the fabric out of the way, all the way up until it was piled up under her armpits. With his lips, tongue and teeth he started to map her contours and shapes, the surface of her skin and the ridges of bones. He lavished special attention on every bruise and injury, drawing pleasure out of the pain. Athos moved methodically, leisurely – it made her shiver with anticipation and impatience. Dazed and thrilled, Anne felt pinned in place by her own swelling lust and his fierce heated focus. 

Finally, _finally_ , he reached the soft mound between her thighs; Anne parted her legs eagerly, whimpering with the first sensation of his mouth against her wet cunt. She rolled her hips, seeking further contact, completely shameless. Athos growled and complied with her wordless command, licking into her, thrusting his talented tongue between her damp folds. When first one and then another of his fingers joined his mouth, Anne writhed and panted, couldn’t bear it – _oh_ – too much, the world tilted and the waters rushed and she burned – _Athos_ – and there was nothing else than this, no one else than him, never _never_ –

When sight and sound and some amount of sanity came back, she became aware of her husband, who was looking at her with a satisfied grin and fond eyes. Anne released her death grip on the sheets and raised her hand; hastily, he crawled up and clumsily latched his lips against hers. She licked messily into his mouth and moaned when she tasted him – and herself. Flushed, she reached down with her left hand, took hold of his hard and hot prick. Athos groaned like he was mortally wounded, bucking up into her grip. As he rested his head against the curve of her shoulder, she stroked him steadily, slowly increasing the pressure, just the way he liked it. 

It didn’t take long. One twist of her wrist; he shook and came, murmuring something that sounded a lot like her name against her moist skin. He collapsed heavily on top of her, all of him against her and _ouch_ , as good as it was to feel his whole weight pressing against her, it was also painful, making all of her bruises and cuts throb and tingle. Anne couldn’t imagine that he would feel any better after his pleasure had run out. With almost drunken mirth she thought how they were both walking wounded, in more ways than one. She pushed at Athos impatiently, and he grunted, but rolled aside. 

They lay side by side, still half entwined. Anne thought how she should wash up, drink something, get dressed. But her eyes were suddenly too heavy, her body lethargic, and she offered no protest when Athos drew the covers over them and slotted their bodies together, his chest to her back, warm hand on her belly. Content, she nestled against him, let herself forget all else but the deep satisfaction that they still _fit_. She closed her eyes and for once, let peace settle over them.


	21. Awakening

_Love is not in our choice but in our fate._

\- John Dryden (1631 - 1700) -

-o-

_The Third of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The cold was the dark and the dark was the emptiness. And they were him. Or more precisely, there was no him, only _cold dark empty_ in bones and blood and deep within. And it was so, for the longest time. 

But that was wrong too, for there was no time. The endless void lacked the time itself as it lacked memory and feeling and _her_. He could have been there only mere moments or numerous long years. Neither option much moved him. 

And then quite abruptly, he was pushed out, shoved through some invisible door unceremoniously, like a new babe into the world. The reality came back in painful fragments; a flood of disjointed memories, pieces of sound and sight and feeling that all told him one thing. It hurt. God, it hurt. Which in his experience meant that he would most likely live.

“Aramis?” A gruff voice asked, and someone carefully touched his forearm, feather-light. _Porthos_ , his mind whispered. Only then did he realize he was among his friends and marveled that the fact he hadn’t known where he was had not alarmed him. He tried to wrestle his heavy eyelids open and found that only one of them heeded his command. With one blurry eye he took in the shadowy room, the faint light the lit candles cast across his friends’ worried faces. 

“How are you feeling?” D’Artagnan enquired anxiously, his eyes darting from Aramis’ face to his torso. Aramis lay still, taking stock of his many aches and pains, trying to determine where he was hurt. He soon gave up though, for _everything_ seemed to hurt – as it was wont to do, after extensive torture. He couldn’t help the sharp hack of a laugh that erupted at that grim thought. 

“Aramis?” Porthos repeated, looking increasingly like he feared Aramis had left his sanity behind in that dreary warehouse. 

“Yeah, still here,” he gasped out, but the answer didn’t seem to appease his friends very much. 

“Do you remember where you are?” D’Artagnan asked, making Aramis frown. He gave the young man a pointed look – which one of them had the most experience in doctoring? – and said, “Of course. Ca’ Monteverdi, Venice. How could I ever forget this lovely place?” 

“You slept a long time,” Porthos explained, a hint of sullen accusation in his voice. Aramis knew his friend had worried all that time, most certainly hovering by his bedside, looking for the smallest sings that he was waking up. “The doctor said you would likely sleep the whole day; he gave you some tonic that knocked you out cold.”

“That was good of him.” At least it had taken his pains away for a while. Aramis decided not to mention the fact that he did not really remember anything about being brought back to the palazzo or the doctor tending to him. That was…irrelevant. “So, what’s the diagnosis?” 

“Your right arm is badly fractured; it might be slow in healing. Luckily the cuts are shallow and nothing seems to be broken. There was some talk about a possible infection, but the doctor assured us that he cleaned the wounds as best as he could,” Porthos listed, his eyes stormy with anger. “The burns…some of them might scar.”

Aramis nodded; he had expected as much. All in all, his condition was not as dire as the pain in his every goddamn inch of skin suggested. “And what about the eye? Is it just swollen shut?” If it wasn’t…if he had lost his sight…well, that would seriously hamper his good aim. 

“Yeah, it looks worse than it is,” d’Artagnan hastened to reassure him. “Even you might have now some difficulties with the ladies with that ugly mug.”

“You want to bet?” Aramis grinned, feeling his cheekbones ache with the motion. Something else gave a sharp twinge too, something buried in deep. It seemed he still wasn’t ready to entertain the notion of other women than _her_ , not even in jest. “How long did I sleep?” he asked, seeking to change the subject. 

“It’s evening now; the dinner was some hours ago. You missed a most delicious meal of roasted lamb.” 

“And you didn’t?” Aramis asked incredulously, knowing it was unlikely that Porthos had enjoyed any food while his friend had been bedridden.

“Oh, not even roasted lamb could get him out of this room,” d’Artagnan said, his grin only widening as Porthos turned slightly crimson and muttered something about having no appetite. Aramis felt suddenly lighter, as if some unseen weight had been lifted from his chest. The cold and dark void was receding, the memory of the emptiness fading. For a moment, he basked in the warmth of his friends’ affection, although something – someone – was missing. 

“Where is Athos?”

Porthos and d’Artagnan exchanged a quick look, before the former answered, “No doubt resting; he had his own misadventures yesterday.” At Aramis’ insistence, the pair then reluctantly preceded to tell him what had befallen Athos and Milady. 

“Did the doctor also take a look at him?” Somewhat alarmed, Aramis started to rise from the bed, but even before d’Artagnan had moved to stop him, he had found out how thoroughly bad idea that was. He slumped back to the mattress, exhausted and in too much pain to even think about moving anytime soon.

“Don’t worry, he was up and moving this morning and fought like a devil, when we found you.” Aramis let Porthos’ words abate his concern, although a small sliver of uncertainty prodded at him sharply. He remembered his blistering anger; how furious he had been at Athos, how unrelenting in his judgment. Aramis couldn’t help but think that his friend’s absence now was a sign of the widening rift between them. 

“How did you know where to find me?” 

Another tale followed, even more worrisome than the news about the Cardinal’s agent. Dismayed, Aramis listened as they told about the deal the Musketeers had struck with _Il Rosso_. What a mess they were in! If only he had been more aware of his surroundings, more mindful, had not allowed himself to be trapped and taken prisoner so easily, like some rookie soldier. “You should not have promised to give him the treaty.” Aramis shook his head, apprehensive. His thoughts _hurt_ with all the complications the deal presented to their mission. 

“We didn’t have much choice in the matter,” d’Artagnan claimed, although all of them knew it hadn’t been so. They could have refused. A heavy silence settled inside the room, and Aramis found himself pondering choices and the lack thereof. Although his time at the tender mercies of the Duke’s soldiers wasn’t very clear – memories of torment were foggily vague and blade sharp in turn – he still acutely remembered how she had come to him, how he had found an understanding, had seen the truth of them both. How he had made a choice to let her go. Aramis knew that he could never _not_ love her, but he could accept that his love would be from afar, without fulfilment. And although his heart ached, it was also calmer than it had been in a long time. 

Aramis looked at Porthos and d’Artagnan, both of whom had borne his grief and guilt and anger without even knowing the reason why. He owed them an explanation at long last, but more than that, he wanted to tell them what was in his heart. 

“I have been insufferable lately, I know.” Both men became instantly more alert, recognizing the change in Aramis’ soft tone. They did not say anything, but waited patiently for him to continue. “There was…I couldn’t…” He searched for the right words, knowing that even now, he could not tell all of it. He would not say her name, not here in this city of spies and traitors. He did not know if he ever could say it out loud. “The woman I love, she lost – she was in pain, and I couldn’t be with her, I couldn’t help her,” Aramis confided, swallowing heavily. 

“She’s married?” D’Artagnan guessed, eyes soft with sympathy. No doubt he was drawing a parallel between Aramis’ confession and his own impossible situation with Constance. 

“Yes,” Aramis admitted, “but I won’t name her – don’t ask.”

Porthos’ large hand came to rest on his shoulder, squeezing it lightly. “Are you alright?” 

Aramis closed his one open eye against the tears that threatened to fall and told the truth. “I will be.”

-o-

“ _What a bloody mess!_ ” The Duke of Orléans slammed his wineglass against the tabletop with a resounding thud, scowling at the two other men currently inside the spacious study. Dark red wine splashed onto the oaken desk, making Leonardo Gonzaga’s expression tighten. Marco Alberti, however, remained nonchalant, almost listless. He only raised his eyebrows lazily, somehow managing to convey how utterly childish he thought Gaston’s behavior. The Duke glared back harder; his ire and indignation demanded appeasement. 

“I want them arrested! No – I want them _killed_.” Horrendous thoughts about the King’s – and especially the Cardinal’s – punishment made Gaston’s voice carry an edge of desperation. Just the mere idea of having to be berated by his weak brother in front of the whole French court made him shudder. Beheading was almost preferable to that indignity. 

“It would not be very…prudent,” Alberti said calmly, his slight foreign accent grating on Gaston. Moreover, the man’s abysmal lack of respect, of proper reverence, infuriated the Duke of Orléans more each passing day. But what else could be expected from a servant of a republic that didn’t have a proper, God-ordained leader? Venice was a country of councilors and public servants and a ceremonial head of state that didn’t even have any real power. The real influence was with those, who had money and connections, and Gaston had both aplenty. Just because Marco Alberti carried the name _Il Negri_ and served as one of the feared Inquisitors didn’t give him power over the heir to the French throne. The man would do well to remember that.

Gaston poured more wine into his glass and drank it all with one gulp. “ _Damn_ prudent! Need I remind you how high the stakes are? If King Louis finds out about our plans…”

“Judging from the presence of his agents, he already has gotten wind of it,” Gonzaga muttered sourly from behind his desk, a lavishly decorated cane resting against the chair he was sitting at. The man had been a cripple from his early youth, but luckily for Leonardo Gonzaga, his immense inherited fortune had rendered his physical failings a mere curiosity instead of it becoming a serious hindrance. Although the sight of the shriveled, twisted leg repulsed Gaston, his host’s wealth made it somewhat bearable. 

“Which is why they cannot leave Venice _alive_ ,” the Duke emphasized pointedly. Once again he cursed Durand to the deepest pit of hell – how on earth had the blasted Captain managed to let his prisoner get rescued? And then he had had the audacity to get himself killed with four of his men! Gaston would have very much liked to have seen Durand alive, groveling at his feet, if only so he could have meted out the proper punishment to the man himself. 

“They have no proof –and they will get no proof.” _Il Negri’s_ dark eyes, intelligent and merciless, transformed his rather ordinary looking appearance into unsettling sharpness. “You will keep the treaties secure, and let us do the rest. No one will get near you in Venice.” 

Gaston suppressed his grimace only with great effort; he was uncomfortably aware that his own loyal men had been reduced in numbers, and he had to rely on the protection his hosts provided. “Why even take the risk? You could arrest them for spying – you could easily make them disappear. Problem solved.”

“That would hardly be without its own complications. Alas, I am not Venice’s only Inquisitor,” Alberti said and smiled faintly. “No, it is better to let them be, for now. After all, they can do nothing without our knowledge. When they leave the city – then it is a different matter entirely. On the road…anything can happen.”

_To them – or to me?_ But the Duke of Orléans knew better than to voice his suspicions. He had grown amid the endless machinations of the court, had hatched countless plots himself. Gaston knew all there was to the game; he was hardly surprised when his Venetian allies made preparations in case the plan would fail. It did not make him any less bitter, any less furious, but he could understand why they were trying to minimize their own involvement in the plot. The presence of the Musketeers, or whoever the men were, had rattled them and made them hesitant to do anything against King Louis’ agents, especially on Venice’s soil. 

“You are right, _anything_ can happen,” Gaston agreed, smiling sharply. He would let the Inquisitor have his way for now. However, it would not be so easy for the Venetians – or Savoy, for that matter – to deny involvement in the plot; Gaston had the treaties, with their damning signatures on them, and he would keep a _very_ tight hold of the documents.

-o-

Even before Athos was fully awake, he knew that his wife lay in his arms; he could feel her softness and warmth, he could smell her familiar scent and hear the faint snuffling sounds she always made, when she was sleeping soundly. Relaxed and content, he let himself drift on the borders of wakefulness and dreams, in no particular hurry to face the day. The many demands of running the estate would claim his time soon enough; now he just wanted to enjoy the peacefulness, the absolute _rightness_ , of being with the woman he would spend the rest of his life with. 

Eyes still closed, he drew her closer; explored the soft shapes until his hand found the small roundness of her belly. Maybe soon, if they were lucky, it would swell and grow big with their child. Fervently wishing it would be so, Athos felt his body respond to her nearness, the familiar aching desire he always felt for her surging to the forefront. Turning his head so her silken hair tickled his nose, he breathed in deep her sweet, subtly floral scent. He let his lust settle a little, enjoying the feel of his hardness against her hip. There was no urgency to act on it; he was quite happy to just leisurely press himself against her, letting her continue to sleep. 

Various thoughts drifted slowly like puffed clouds in a summer sky; one moment he thought about how the stable’s roof needed repairing, and then he was in the middle of green, rolling fields. Next moment he mused how comfortable the soft bedding was and felt inordinately glad to be home, in their own big bed. But where else would he be? A small sliver of unease trickled down his spine; he shook it off determinedly. 

_Beloved_ , he murmured into his wife’s hair and slept awhile. 

When the last dream faded, Athos jolted awake, painfully aware of his surroundings. The house he was in did not belong to him, the room and the bed were most definitely not his, and even the only familiar thing, his wife, was neither his nor really no one’s wife anymore. 

The room was dark; he must have slept a long while. For a moment Athos lay carefully still and kept holding her, feeling the slight rise of Anne’s chest as she breathed evenly. It seemed impossible that he had ever sought to cut all the breath from her body, leave her an empty dead shell. It seemed equally unbelievable that he had ever managed to let go of her, leave her behind or watch as she walked away. And yet, that was exactly what he had to do. 

Slowly, with the utmost care not to wake her, Athos drew his hands away from Anne and shifted backwards, separating their bodies. The cool air rushed between them and enveloped his bare skin, making him shiver. Anne stirred restlessly in her sleep, a frown marring her face. The covers had slid down to her mid-thigh; Athos pulled them up to her chin, so that only her face and dark hair were visible. 

He dressed quickly and silently, eyes on Anne’s slumbering form even as his fingers fastened the clothes and weapons in their places. Whatever would happen, when they next met, he wanted to hold this image in his mind: Anne asleep, safe, at peace. He knew he would dream of last night’s passion often, with punishing fervor, but this peaceful image of her he would keep closest to his heart. 

A splash of midnight blue drew his eye; Anne’s silk ribbon curled at the foot of the bed against the bedpost. Athos remembered unfastening it from around her throat, remembered kissing the marks of hate and vengeance he had forever branded her with. He took the ribbon and tied it securely around his forearm. The shirtsleeve hid it from view, but he could feel the silk against his skin. 

Fully dressed, he had no reason to linger any longer. Athos gave himself one more look at her even brow, closed eyelids, smooth cheek. The bruises marring her skin were still dark bluish, like spilled ink. He wanted to kiss them again and again, until all of them were healed, vanished like they never were. 

_Beloved._

The word came to him again, this time while he was wide awake in harsh reality, aware of the painful past and the complicated present and the uncertain future. He now knew the word was not a choice, but a fundamental truth that could not be denied anymore, and as much as it bound him it also set him finally free.

He closed the door carefully behind him, leaving his love to sleep alone.


	22. The Request

_There must be a beginning of any great matter, but the continuing unto the end until it be thoroughly finished yields the true glory._

\- Sir Francis Drake (c.1540 – 1596) -

 

-o-

_The Fourth of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The open window of her bedroom was like a mirror into another world. Excited shouts, bursts of shrill laughter and the musical medley of different instruments filled the silent room, their sounds ebbing and flowing like the tide. With the noises came the different array of smells; the heady mix of salty sea, delicious food and bitter smoke, the sharp tang of human and animal excrement that seemed to be forever every city’s bane. And when she leaned a little further forward, parted the white, gently swaying drapes, she could see those sources of sounds and smells, of _life_. 

People were bustling and swarming, hurrying and loitering, on the small _piazza_ and along the narrow canals. They were wearing carnival masks, bright ribbons and feathers, clothing in every color imaginable. Children skipped and ran around like savages, hollering and shrieking with abandon. The men and women let them, some of them even joining in on the fun. All seemed eager and joyful and alive. It was the last day of the Carnival, the last day of celebrations before the solemn and dreary rites of the Church would draw their attention back to sin and damnation and guilt. 

For a moment, Anne wished she could be there among the crowd, just another faceless, nameless reveler, losing herself in the carefree celebration of life. Just a few steps from the back door of the palazzo and the sea of people would sweep her away; she could walk, sail, ride, run away from the house, from the city, from _him_ , disappear and begin once again anew, someone else. 

However, it was just a fleeting, weak moment that she could easily push aside. Anne let go of the drapes, let the cloth fall back to place and obscure her sight of the outside world. She had a task to do, a mission to complete. She would not leave until she had done her all to succeed, no matter who stood on her way. Ever since she had woken up at the small hours of the night, half of the bed cold and empty, Anne had plotted and planned with renewed fervor. 

A small, barely audible knock on the door announced the arrival of her maid before the door creaked carefully open. Louise slipped into the room, hands full of freshly laundered clothes. She stopped when she saw Anne, somewhat surprised. 

“Oh, you’re already up,” Louise wondered and then promptly blushed at the improper familiarity her words and tone of voice conveyed. 

“I have slept enough.” Anne gave her maid a wry smile, not bothering to admonish the girl. She had never held on to needless ceremony or rigid manners; had employed them only when they had been useful to her. 

“Would you like me to bring some breakfast to you, Milady?” Louise enquired, her small chin just visible above the tall pile of clothes. It was early still; the breakfast would not be served until the master and the mistress of the palazzo woke, which was usually quite late – at least in the Carnival season. The Monteverdis had gone to another party the night before and had undoubtedly returned late; Anne had a vague sense of waking up to the heavy thump of a gondola against a pier, a man singing, _badly_. Elena had offered to stay at home, to keep her friend company, but Anne had emphatically refused the kind offer. Perhaps if she had accepted it, the rest of the night would have gone differently. 

“Milady?” Louise was watching her, eyes soft with empathy. The girl had been shocked by Anne’s injuries, had even seemed to be outraged on her behalf, her face blanching bone-white when she had first seen the mangled fingers. She too had hovered uncomfortably close by her mistress’ side, attending to Anne’s every request with solemn and swift competence, until Anne had finally sent her away brusquely, telling Louise she didn’t need her for the rest of the evening. If she had let the girl stay –

“I’m not hungry. I’ll ask something later.” She had no intention of leaving her room anytime soon. Luckily nobody expected her to, as she was still recovering from her injuries and the traumatic experience of being so shockingly and violently robbed in the middle of the day. 

“Yes, Milady.” Louise made her way to the dressing room door, tottering a little under the weight of her burden; Anne thought dryly that it had been fortunate the maid hadn’t tried to curtsy as the odds for a dignified outcome had been heavily against her. She watched for a moment as the girl tried to nudge the door open, most unsuccessfully, the clothing pile teetering ominously in her slight arms. With a strange ache in her heart, Anne strode to the dressing room door and yanked it open. 

An endearing pink hue swept across Louise’s cheeks; the girl muttered her thanks and slid inside the small room. Anne settled back on the settee by the window, the one Athos had slept in all but the last two nights. It really was exceedingly uncomfortable. The drapes waved slightly in the breeze; a sliver of blinding light fell across the floor. 

“Can I help you dress, Milady?” Louise called from the dressing room, her voice slightly muffled. 

“It’s not worth the trouble – after all, I’m a convalescent. I can lounge all day in my dressing gown if I want.” Although if she were properly dressed, it would take a lot more than just a yank at the rope of her dressing gown to undress her. But there would be none of _that_ – she was quite certain. After all, she knew Athos better than he knew himself. The man would avoid her like one avoided the plague, angrily regretting everything that had happened between them, remembering how he _hated_ her, driving every kiss and caress out of his mind with the cruel force of his stubborn will. 

That was fine; that was expected. What had happened last night had been an anomaly, a moment of madness, a mistake. She had been weak to succumb to the heated tension and lust between them, foolish to let him see behind her mask, deluded to think that something good and new could arise from so tortured a past. Their shared pleasure had been nothing more than a brief respite from the reality, a confirmation of life amid violence and pain. To belief, to _hope_ otherwise would be the worst kind of folly and self-deception. They could not change themselves any more than they could change any of the past. Although some things apparently did change; it hadn’t escaped her notice that Athos wasn’t wearing her locket anymore. 

“Can I do something else for you, Milady?” Louise had finished her task in the dressing room and had come to stand in front of Anne, expectant and oddly hesitant. The girl had never been timid before, although she was quiet and somewhat shy by nature, but she had never been intimidated by anything or anyone. And it wasn’t like the maid now seemed to be afraid of Anne, more like…worried. With a pang, Anne realized that Louise was worried about her mistress. 

For a moment, Anne wanted to say _no_. “Yes, there is something,” she said instead. 

“Anything, Milady,” Louise answered gravely, as if she already knew the enormity of what Anne would ask of her. 

“Louise…you are a bright girl. I have no doubt that you know very well that the way I earn a living isn’t exactly…what polite society deems acceptable. But you have always been loyal and discreet.” Anne looked at the girl, still so young but already more accustomed to the dark, seedy side of life than some people would be in their whole lifetime. But the past could be turned into a lesson, a strength; it would now help Louise survive and succeed, as it had helped Anne. “I’m going to be honest with you, for your livelihood and future is tied to mine. There is something I have been tasked to do here, but consequently this –” she raised her bandaged hand, grimacing at the sight of it, “this makes it rather difficult. But it must be done, and so I have to ask for your help.” 

Anne paused, throat dry. She hated not being able to do the task herself, of not being in control. But everything depended on the new plan she had formed on the dark hours of the early morning, and the plan in turn depended heavily on Louise. 

“I’m not going to lie – the task is dangerous. And you don’t have to do it – this is not an order. It’s entirely up to you. But I also want you to know, that I have the utmost faith that you can do it – you are more than capable of doing it.” 

Louise squared her jaw and asked, “What do I have to do?”

Anne gave the girl a small, but true smile, feeling proud and apprehensive in equal measure. Louise’s steely resolve, her _devotion_ , warmed Anne’s heart. Surely, together, they would succeed. 

They had to. 

-o-

The small room felt stuffy and hot, even though the shutters of the narrow opening that passed for a window were fully open. Aramis knew better than to voice his discomfort, for that would make him instantly the target of his friend’s restless spirit. And if truth be told, his patience for Porthos’ suffocating care was quickly wearing thin. He did appreciate his friend’s concern, but experience had proven it never bode well, when Porthos shut himself up without anything to do.

Ironically, one of the most fascinating and famous celebrations were happening all around them, but they could not take any part on it. They would not leave the palazzo; particularly Aramis, because he was barely fit to leave the bed he was resting in, but also the others, because they had all agreed to lay low until _Il Rosso’s_ spy gave them the signal that the Duke was leaving Venice. There was no need to tempt fate by going outside and giving their adversaries a better opportunity to strike against them than the bastards already had. 

Reason aside, Aramis knew Porthos well enough to realize, that with every dull moment that went by, his friend became more and more tempted to venture into the maze of streets and canals. As if on cue, Porthos sighed loudly and said, “I should scout the area around the palazzo, see if there are men watching the –” 

“No.” Aramis’ tone of voice didn’t leave any room for debate. “You know that is a bad idea – and of course there are people watching the house, that is a given.” 

“How much longer we have to be prisoners in this _goddamned_ room…” Porthos muttered, familiar frustration evident in everything – in his tight voice and drawn face, in the way he paced across the room, like a caged animal. 

“Well, _you_ can leave anytime you wish, there are many other rooms in this house besides this one,” Aramis remarked dryly, watching as his friend grimaced with contrition.

“Of course I’ll stay –”

“Yeah, and you are always such a joy to be around.” Aramis grinned, making a shooing motion with his good arm. “Go on, please leave me in peace. Go find d’Artagnan; the boy is bound to have found some trouble by now, even inside this house.” 

Porthos’ pout morphed into a good-humored smirk. “I’m wounded that you appreciate my precious company so little; I’ll just have to eat those delicacies I find in the kitchen all by myself.” 

“Empty threats do not suit you, my friend.”

“We’ll see.” And with that flippant parting shot, Porthos took his leave and the room turned silent and still. 

Aramis took a deep breath, wincing from the sharp pain it caused. He understood Porthos’ restless boredom; he felt that way himself. Aramis was already tired of lying in bed, waiting until he was well enough again to be of some use, waiting and wanting for _something_ to happen. He was unsettled, full of nervous but weary energy. And however much he fought against it, with the first opportunity his thoughts seemed to always turn back to Paris and _her_. He hoped – prayed – that she was alright, that she had found some peace. 

A soft knock disrupted his thoughts, just in time, before he could start to truly worry and agonize over what had happened and _was_ happening in Paris during his absence. A moment later, the door swung open and revealed the friend he had not seen since being taken prisoner; the friend whose visit he had waited with both apprehensive and hopeful heart. 

“Can I come in?” Athos stood in the doorway, looking oddly hesitant. It told something – something unflattering and sad – about the state of their friendship that he even felt the need to ask. Merely a week ago he would have just barged in. 

“Of course.” 

Athos stepped inside the room, shutting the door carefully behind him. His sharp eyes examined the small space, taking in Porthos’ unmade bed, the half-empty bottles of tonics and salves on the table. Finally, his gaze settled on Aramis. “I came the night before, but you were asleep.”

“Yes, Porthos told me.” Aramis felt suddenly an inexplicable need to stand, to meet his friend’s eyes head on, on equal footing. Knowing it was very doubtful that he could stand unaided, he compromised instead, dragging himself slowly into a sitting position. Athos’ eyes followed his every moment, his lips pursed into a severe line.

“How are you doing?” 

“Fine,” Aramis said, too quickly and irritably for it to be quite true. Athos nodded tightly, his posture as tense as if he was facing a firing squad – or King Louis on one of his unreasonable moods. An expectant silence filled the room, pushed into the space between them, heavy and cumbersome. It seemed neither of them wanted to break it first; they were both proud men, not always in the best meaning of the word. 

Just as Aramis was taking a deep breath in, deciding he would begin, say all he had planned to say, Athos suddenly confessed, “I should have made sure that you had returned from following the Duke – there is no excuse for my failure to do that. Because of that…” His voice was gravelly, each word dragging forth more pain onto his somber face. 

“You had just escaped after being beaten and tortured! You were tired and…I can understand. And I doubt it would have changed anything if you had realized I was gone. What could you have done in the middle of the night?” Aramis did not want his friend’s guilt and contrition; not in the least did he blame Athos – or any of his friends – for his imprisonment and torture. Any failure there had been, had been his alone. 

Athos’ face told him that he disagreed, but all the man said was, “I’m sorry nonetheless.”

After Athos’ sincere apology, it was suddenly easier to confess his own multitude of sins. “And I’m sorry about the way things have been between us. I took my anger and guilt on you; blamed you for the things that I deep down knew I should have blamed myself. Will you forgive me?” Aramis exhaled loudly; it felt good to have voiced the words, to get them out of the confines of his own unworthy heart. 

Athos shook his head, eyes knowing and soft. “There is nothing to forgive.”

And with deep relief and gratitude, Aramis knew that his friend meant every word he said. Athos _understood_ , as he had always claimed to have done, but before, Aramis hadn’t listed, hadn’t believed, too wrapped in his own guilt and grief and anger. Athos had understood from the very beginning, from the horrible day Aramis had learned his son was dead, and in his friend’s mind, there really wasn’t anything to forgive. 

Looking back, Aramis could see that Athos had been a most true friend, protecting Aramis and those dear to him even against Aramis’ own actions. “Athos,” he said earnestly, wanting to convey how very grateful he was, “you were right to keep me away from her – I would have put all of us in danger. I hope I can do the same service to you, be the voice of reason, when your heart screams so loud it drowns all other voices.”

For a moment Athos looked almost crushed; like he desperately wanted to confess something, some dark secret of his heart. Aramis could hear the unsaid words in the air, as clear as if his friend had uttered them: _too late for that, it’s far too late now_. But when Athos spoke, it was only to enquire, “How are you, really?”

Not wanting to sow any more discord between them, Aramis let his friend’s unsaid words go unremarked, hoping Athos would confide in him again in time. “I’ll be fine – I’ve had worse.” This time the words rang true. The physical pain would eventually fade, and until that time, Aramis could manage; he had learned long ago how to function while every bone in his body ached and throbbed and howled from pain. 

“Can you ride the day after tomorrow?” Athos looked at him enquiringly, assessing his condition. 

“Yes.” Aramis knew he had no other choice; he could not get left behind in a hostile city nor would he let himself be an impediment to others. He would do his duty, and more than that – he would support his friends and carry an equal sized portion of their mission. And really, he could ride half-dead, if it only took him away from this rotten, sunken city. 

“Alright.” Athos nodded determinedly. “Let’s finish this and go home.”


	23. The Oak Tree

_I have loved him too much not to hate._

\- Jean Racine (1639–1699), _Andromaque_ \- 

 

-o-

_The Fourth of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

Anne pushed the remains of the generous dinner further up the small table; the tray was still half-laden with different meats and spicy delicacies, their enticing smell making her stomach churn violently. She had picked at her meal for the better part of an hour, spending more time sipping red wine than actually eating anything. Elena, who had insisted on dining in the guestroom with her friend, had first repeatedly urged Anne to eat more, but had by now given up the verbal encouragement, settling for a few admonishing looks instead. 

“An excellent meal, as always,” Anne said, the compliment signaling the end of the dinner.

“I’m glad it was too delicious to resist,” the hostess remarked dryly, bestowing another disapproving look upon Anne’s almost-full plate. She finished her drink slowly, and then took hold of the carafe. “More wine?”

“Please.” Anne watched as once more the glasses were filled up with blood-red liquid. The wine swayed a little until it settled and shimmered enticingly in the candlelight. She wondered where Louise was; whether the girl had already fulfilled her task or if she was waiting for the most opportune moment. And if, while waiting, the maid’s heart was beating with fright or excitement; or if all was already over, whether she was experiencing elation or bitter disappointment. 

“Such a shame that you should miss the end celebrations; _la Piazza_ is quite insane tonight.” Elena glanced at the open window; the medley of different sounds from outside had not diminished with the setting sun, but instead increased with every hour the day grew closer to night. 

“Yes, it is a rather hard blow – I was quite looking forward to it,” Anne agreed truthfully, although she didn’t exactly mean the huge masked ball and general revelry in St Mark’s Square her friend was alluding to. 

“Perhaps, if we got you a mask that covered your whole face…”

“Oh, the bruised face is the least of my problems,” Anne laughed wryly. “I cannot even imagine walking in a corset much alone dancing. Even the tiniest bruise and cut hurts more today than the day I got them.” She had only left her room twice that day; once to go to the privy and the second time to holler at a passing servant to bring her something to eat. 

“That is always the way with wounds.” Elena’s dark eyes were serious, her thin lips drawn into a soft, compassionate curve. “The day after is the worst and the day after that. But then…it will get better.”

“You don’t have to tell me.” Anne gazed intently at the glass she held in her good hand, studiously avoiding her hostess’ frank look. 

“I am very lucky…to have Giovanni,” Elena said quietly. The courteous, _bored_ overtone that people used in polite society to talk about trivial matters – and that was all they ever really talked about – was gone from her voice. She sounded sincere, contemplative. “He has never hit me, has never punished me violently. Sometimes we quarrel fiercely and he storms out to gamble and drink and complain about me to his friends…the next day he brings me gifts and wants to make love to me.” 

“You have a good husband.” Suddenly the wine tasted too acrid; Anne fought to suppress her grimace. 

“Yes…first, when my father told me I was to be married to Giovanni, I feared…My father, you see, he believed that women should be spanked regularly, to keep them in their rightful place. Thus it was in his household. I thought that Giovanni would be the same.” 

Anne swallowed the rest of her wine and put the glass carefully on to the table. The carafe was almost empty. She thought for a long moment, and almost said nothing. But something in her was tugging at the aching, amazing, damning truth, and before she knew it, she was confessing with a hushed voice, “Athos and I…we chose each other. And first it was good, _blissfully_ good. But then…everything turned, soured. We became something else, this hateful, hurtful union of two snarling beasts.” 

“And now you hate him?” It was more of a statement than a question. 

“I have loved him too much _not_ to hate.”

“But…I think, despite everything, you still love each other. Sometimes, the way you look at him and he looks at you…it’s there in your eyes,” Elena claimed softly. She was watching Anne carefully, measuring how her words would be received. 

“On the grounds of Athos’ family estate, there is this gorgeous field…in the summer it’s filled with forget-me-nots and numerous other flowers. And right in the middle of it, there is a big oak tree. It watches over everything.” Anne smiled gently, the image of that field clear in front of her eyes, clenching her heart. “I loved that field; we used to go there, kiss under the oak, make love among the flowers.” She paused, held Elena’s gaze. “Then one day, my loving husband…when he thought that I had deceived him…he did this.” Slowly, Anne untied the silk ribbon that was fastened around her neck, drew it away to reveal the old scars. “He hanged me from that tree.”

Elena gasped, her eyes round with shock. “But how…how did you survive?”

“Oh, it was just meant to be a lesson – he cut me down, eventually,” Anne gave a small, humorless laugh. “And yes, I still love him. Isn’t that perverse?” 

“And your fingers?” Elena’s horrified gaze settled on Anne’s bandaged hand. The fingers ached inside their dressings, a steady beating pulse of pain. She had the tale ready, how Athos had broken them one by one, mad with jealousy. 

But all she said was, “I thought that this time…it would be different. But the truth is, we may try again and again, and still we are no good to each other. And I cannot be here with him anymore. Elena – I need your help. Please, I…I need to leave, soon. And Athos cannot know. He cannot follow me, I just can’t bear it anymore…” Anne let her voice grew ragged, inserted a thread of panic; she drew her hands down to her lap, as if she were trying to hide their uncontrollable tremble.

“ _La mia amica_ ,” Elena sighed, her hand reaching across the table to touch Anne’s forearm, “of course I’ll help.”

“Thank you.” Anne lifted her left hand and clasped her friend’s fingers tightly. “ _Thank you_! I knew I could count on you – you are a true friend.” The relief in her voice was only half-fake. Whether Louise succeeded or not, they would need to make a swift – and secret – departure from Venice. And if the worst happened and Louise got caught in the act…Anne’s own life would depend on how quickly she could shake the Venetian soil off her boots.

“What do you need?” Elena asked, the serious tone of her voice reflecting the solemn look in her eyes. 

“I – and my maid – we need a discreet way out of Venice; a boat certainly and then horses, maybe a carriage. I need my things packed and ready for the departure and I absolutely need that _no one_ knows about it. Not the servants, not Athos or his friends, and not even your husband, Elena.” 

“I can arrange transportation, that will not be a problem – but someone else has to know; even if it is just the boatman and the coachman.” Elena looked thoughtful, her mind busy sorting through all the necessary details and requirements. She ran a big, orderly household; Anne had no doubt that Elena could arrange a simple secret getaway with relative ease. “But I have a couple of servants who are wholly reliable – if I ask for their silence, they will give it. One of them can row you to a quiet pier, where a boat will pick you up. Once you get into Mestre, there will be a carriage waiting and you can go anywhere you want.”

Anne nodded her assent; the plan was sound. She would just have to trust that Elena’s servants were as trustworthy as she believed them to be. The most crucial thing would be to get out of the palazzo without arousing undue notice – after that her weapons would ensure their helpers’ cooperation. 

“When do you want to leave?”

“As soon as possible,” Anne answered without hesitation. Louise had been gone the entire day – she would have to be back soon. 

“Everyone’s at the celebrations…but that can be a good thing. Yes…the payment will no doubt be doubled, but it can be arranged…Tomorrow morning, just before first light. Those that are not still celebrating are resting in drunken stupor; there is a small chance that anyone will notice you leave.” Elena smiled wolfishly, confident that her plan would succeed. 

“That’s perfect.” Anne returned her friend’s smile with her own, but then let her mouth twist into a small, worried frown. “But…if the cost is…that is, I don’t have very much money left – I can give you some of my jewelry, if –”

“Oh, hush!” Elena shook her head emphatically. “That is not necessary; I will take care of everything.”

“Thank you, I don’t know what I would have done without your help, I’ll be forever in your debt.”

Elena shook her head again, the dark curls cascading around her intelligent, lively face. She rose up and went to Anne, softly touching the exposed scars marking her friend’s slender neck. “Anne…there’s no debt…I just want you to get away from that bastard and find some happiness elsewhere. Promise me, that you’ll leave it all behind you?”

Anne smiled grimly, and despite the painful lump clogging her throat, managed to say, “I promise that the first chance I get, I am going to chop down that tree, burn it to ash.”

“You might just burn yourself,” Elena remarked sadly, her warm fingers withdrawing from Anne’s cool skin. 

_I already did_ , Anne thought, keeping these words to herself. She fastened the ribbon back around her neck, once again hiding the ugly scars from view. But the mask was now inadequate; they both knew what lay underneath it and knowing, they could not see anything else but the oak tree and the rope, gently swaying in a breeze.

-o-

Mestre lay quiet and still underneath the rising moon. The town was unnaturally tranquil, the normal hustle and bustle of animals, wagons, boats and people greatly reduced from just the day before. Everyone able to go – and no doubt a fair share of those who really couldn’t or shouldn’t – had gone to Venice, to the hundreds of tiny islands, whose lights shined across the dark water. However accustomed the Venetians had become to their yearly festival, the Carnival’s end celebrations were not to be missed. For a fleeting moment Gérard felt a tiny prick of curiosity followed by even more tiny flicker of remorse that he was in the mainland town and not in the middle of Venice’s revelry. He pushed it aside easily, snorting at his own brief folly. 

Gérard threw the scraps of his late dinner – chicken pie that hadn’t really tasted anything like chicken – aside and settled down on the pile of hay. It offered some padding from the hard ground and some warmth should the night grow too cold. Suitably sheltered from prying eyes, it was as good a place to spend the night as any other of its like. The inns and taverns were out of the question since he was currently trying to avoid unnecessary contact with the Inquisitors’ many spies. Having been driven out of Venice the day before yesterday, he had hid himself on the outskirts of Mestre, although it had been strongly _insinuated_ that he should ride all the way to the border, if he wanted to avoid torture and beheading.

He wasn’t _welcome_ in Venice, the rat-faced little man had said, his tongue darting to lick dry, thin lips. It really would be _best_ , if the Musketeers and Comtesse de la Fére were to be left alone. Again said with that repulsive, maddening lick of lips. If the little man hadn’t been accompanied by a dozen of heavily armed men, Gérard would have gladly showed him how little he cared about the message – threat really – he had been given. He had been sorely tempted, but in the end prudence and cunning had won over the strong hankering for violence. So he had adjusted his plans accordingly and had left the city immediately, not even bothering to deal with the two men he had hired to assist him. No doubt the men were either dead or in the pay of one of the Inquisitors – or both. 

It had absolutely galled him to leave his prisoners behind; Gérard was sure that with little more persuasion, soon one or both of them would have cracked. In the end, getting to know where the treaties were hadn’t even been the point anymore. Everyone always gave in, yielded to him; Milady and the Musketeer Athos would have been no exceptions. Through pain and deprivation, they would have fought and clawed until there would have been nothing worth fighting for, until they would have turned on each other, on themselves. Not one thought, not any secret, no dark corner of their soul would have remained unvisited. In the end, they would have given it all willingly, _gladly_ to him. 

Gérard shivered from imagined satisfaction. That would have been better than the most decadent of celebrations. The interruption of witnessing the utter torment transforming itself into the relief of unconditional surrender was worth some remorse – and a promise to continue, to see it through to the end. Someday. 

But for now, they were both beyond his reach. For whatever reason, the Venetians wanted them alive. However, they also wanted _him_ alive. Gérard was no fool; if the Venetians really wanted him dead, he would be dead. They had only driven him away, and had not really even made sure he left Venetian soil. There were two reasons for it – they obviously didn’t want him to get the treaties and didn’t want anything...untoward happening to King Louis’ agents while they were in Venice. As for letting him keep his head – they had to have some use for him yet. Perhaps the second part of Gérard’s mission suited the Inquisitors better than the first. 

Smiling grimly, Gérard wondered what the honorable Gaston of France had done to get the Venetians to hope that the Cardinal’s agent would put a bullet through his thick, royal skull. 

-o-

The huge square was crowded, filled with people and movement and colors and voices so that there wasn’t an inch of empty space left. Louise’s heart was thudding madly, her lungs constricting; it was hard to breathe. All around her there was a crush of people, swarming and smothering, shoving and pushing. It was unnerving and terrifying, but at the same time it was good – it was going to help her. She was just one body among many, one mask among hundreds. She merged into the crowd, her servant’s clothes and simple Carnival mask making her uninteresting, _ordinary_. Louise knew how not to attract any notice; she had used it to her advantage many times in the streets of Paris. It had made her one of the city’s best pickpockets. 

Although the massive swarm of people would help disguise her actions, it also offered its own hindrance. It was difficult to find one man among many, and even more difficult to observe her quarry without being unintentionally pushed in the opposite direction by the swell of the people’s movement. But there too, the circumstances made it easier for her; the man was no mere man, but a member of royalty and therefore he was easily distinguished from others, even in the middle of a masked merriment. His lavishly rich clothes, the entourage of guards and companions, even the way he demanded space…it all bespoke of such a wealth of unconscious entitlement only the very rich and important had in them. 

Louise shifted carefully to the right and let a group of young women and men – many of them obviously servants and maids and footmen spending their only night off service – sweep her into their midst. She moved with them several yards onwards, until near the church’s bell tower she dropped back, turning swiftly to the right, just as a next group of people pushed her along with them, towards the retinue of the Duke of Orléans. It was so hard to breathe; something heavy was squeezing her insides. It had been some years since she had done this: what if her fingers bumbled, what if she froze? What if she got caught?

_You will not get caught_ , she whispered to herself. She had never gotten caught before; she had been too quick, too unassuming, all too invisible. _You will do this_. Milady would be waiting for her; their future depended on this. It was her turn to help her mistress, her turn to take the risks. _You will not turn around_. She was not a coward; she had survived before, she would survive again. 

A yard more – a shift to the left – closer – breathe breathe – closer – a calculated collision resulting in a strong push forward – just a little _closer_ – a gentle bump – 

Commotion all around, masked people clamoring and shoving and laughing, none of them noticing a small ordinary woman, none of them seeing a touch lighter than a feather. She was invisible, her fingers as quick and sure and nimble as a pixie’s. A second, another, and then she was turning, twirling, moving into another group of people, every push and step taking her further away from notice, from discovery. 

Discreetly, careful to not draw attention, she shoved the precious papers inside the neckline of her dress, to the safe place between her bust and undershirt. Only when she had left St Mark’s Square far behind, did Louise dare to breathe freely. She took in a huge, salty lungful of air, every nerve tingling, igniting, burning.

She grinned wildly, madly; it felt good to be alive, and brave and _extraordinary_.


	24. Goodbye

_I must be cruel, only to be kind:_  
 _Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind._

\- William Shakespeare (1564–1616), _Hamlet_ -

-o-

_The Fifth of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

Sleep eluded him with the doggedness of an old enemy. Even those dark, tortured nightmares that so often lurked nearby, ready to tear him from the lap of peaceful rest, would have been preferable to the tired haze of stubborn wakefulness. Although his aching and bruised body was saved from further punishment by the somewhat comfortable bed, his thoughts knew nothing of such respite; they rushed onwards and backwards, only to relentlessly circle the same things over and over again. Mainly: what should he say to her? What _could_ he say to her?

Frustrated by his own inability to quieten the nettlesome thoughts, Athos twisted and turned on the narrow bed, searching for sleep that seemed to be more elusive by every moment that crawled slowly by. It did not help that it was the first night he spent in his new accommodations, on the servants’ floor in a small room that Signora Monteverdi had arranged for him. Although new beddings and comforts had been brought to the room, the unadorned walls and what little there were of humble furniture revealed the previous occupant to be no one of particular importance. Athos couldn’t help but feel a little guilty that someone else – probably a senior servant of the household – had had to relinquish their own room for him. 

He kicked the covers aside, letting the cool, damp air to prickle his warm skin; against his fevered thoughts however, it had no effect. Athos was uncomfortably aware that he hadn’t seen Anne since he had left her sleeping peacefully the night before. He had carefully kept himself apprised of her whereabouts, and he knew that she hadn’t left her room the whole day. She hadn’t sought him out and he…he had been relieved. He still had no words to offer for her. 

As had fast become a self-torturous habit, his thoughts circled back to the night before, to her flushed face, to those small, breathless sounds of pleasure that never failed to set his blood boiling. The way she had clung to him, writhed under his hands, slender limbs and dark hair all askew, eyes full of familiar desire. That night, they had been more intimate, more truthful with each other than they had been since the best days of their marriage. He had held her and kissed her and tasted her, had gotten all those things that he had secretly, shamefully longed for in the long years since he had lost her. 

Whether the price for that night was too steep or not, Athos was in two minds of. He had realized, had _admitted_ to himself, that he loved Anne still – he always would. It was a knowledge saturated both with old bitterness and tired hope, aching yearning and crippling regret. Knowledge that he had renounced, pushed away, denied, pretended so long didn’t exist. Self-deception was the easiest deception of all and Athos knew himself enough to know he was particularly good at it. But now…one night with her, one moment of lowering of the guard, opening the gate, and it was no use of pretending anymore: he loved her, he knew he loved her, and no amount of wishing would ever make it otherwise. All of which presented an entirely new problem. What should he do with that love? 

As some kind of reconciliation – however small – between Anne and him had undeniably taken place, should he travel further down that road? It would be difficult and perhaps in the end, not even altogether feasible. He was only too aware of the many obstacles both their past and present offered with no easy resolutions in sight. Perhaps the biggest ones being: could he ever fully trust her? Could he ever truly forgive her? And could she do the same? But all of it was just speculation, restless woolgathering, for he hadn’t even decided if that – reconciliation, being _together_ – was something he wanted. And even if he wanted it ( _ached_ for it), it was almost certainly something he just could not have. 

He was the King’s Musketeer and she was…whatever she currently was. He was loyal to France, to his King and to his friends. Anne, on the other hand, seemed to hold no loyalty towards anyone and at the very worst she could pose a danger to all he held dear and believed in. Could he jeopardize everything for some distant chance of getting back what he had lost? 

Athos stared at the dark ceiling above him, grimacing bitterly. In the end, all the circling, maddening thoughts, all ifs and buts were completely futile, for there was another truth he knew and acknowledged. He _knew_ that there was no reclaiming the past, no path that would lead to those days when they had loved each other with mad, all-consuming passion, no return to that place where they had belonged fully to only one another. But still, he had no words for her. Saying anything that would reveal the depth of his feelings seemed suicidal, but carrying on as nothing at all had happened was equally impossible.

Too exhausted to dwell on troublesome thoughts any longer, Athos rose up, deciding he could make sure that everything was as it should be. It was the darkest hour of the night, and only the valet in night duty should be awake. That obviously wasn’t so, as Athos himself was anything but asleep; the least he could do was to take advantage of his bout of insomnia and make certain the palazzo was secure. 

Not bothering to don his boots, Athos walked the stone floors in stockinged feet, clad only in trousers and undershirt. The servants’ floor was silent, all the doors tightly shut. He descended the stairs quietly, eyes quickly growing accustomed to his unlit surroundings. The dark hallways and twisting corridors had become familiar to him during their stay; it was no particular effort to patrol the sleeping house. 

He had just confirmed that all was silent and still on the fourth-floor, when a figure emerged from the backstairs. Athos gripped the hilt of the dagger he had fastened to his belt, instantly ready for a violent confrontation. The slight figure came to an abrupt halt, stopping dead a few yards away from him. It didn’t take but a moment for Athos to recognize the familiar shape and features; still, he did not let go of the dagger. 

“Why on earth are you lurking in the dark?” Anne asked quietly. She did not come any closer; it was difficult to distinguish her expression from the surrounding darkness. 

“What are you doing?” The old, weary suspicion was back in his heart and in his voice.

“A _gentleman_ would never ask that question. But if you must know, nature called.” She gestured vaguely in the direction of the privy, although everything else in her was frozen, including the tone of her voice. It could have cut through steel. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to bed.” Anne stepped determinedly forward, intent on passing Athos to reach the guestroom at the other end of the corridor. 

“Wait.” Without really knowing why, Athos halted her by taking hold of her arm. Now he was close enough to see the hard lines around her mouth, the proud slope of her nose, the rigid expression in her eyes. She glared at the spot, where his fingers met her linen-clad upper arm, her mouth tightening further from discomfort – or distaste. 

“I’m not really in the mood for these games,” Anne said, sounding deadly serious. 

“This isn’t…I don’t mean to –” Athos grimaced, the clumsy words having little chance to express what he really wanted. He still did not know what to say her, but he couldn’t bear to let her return to her room thinking the worst of him. “I wanted to say, that I’m sorry –“

“About last night. Yes, I know,” she interrupted him sharply, “that’s hardly anything new.”

“No.” Athos shook his head, fighting against every cowardly impulse that wanted him to turn his face away from hers. He met her intense, accusing gaze, willing the truth to be clear, if not from his words then from the look of his eyes. “At least, not about anything that happened between us. It was…it is complicated, and I can’t say I know where it leads or what it means, but I am not sorry about that. What I _am_ sorry for, is that I left before you woke.”

“Oh,” she remarked faintly, “no matter.”

“I should not have stolen into the night like some thief. It was badly done,” he confessed gravelly.

“Of all the things to be sorry for…” Anne tilted her head, her dark eyes examining his expression, his posture, no doubt seeing into the very core of him. A small smile spread across her face. “Athos, it was nothing I did not expect.” 

“Still…” His heart was suddenly leaden, dragging him to the murky black. 

“Let go of my arm,” Anne said, almost gently. As she drew slightly back, Athos heeded her command and let her arm slide from his grasp. His hand fell back to his side, empty. He waited for her to walk past him, to leave him to stand alone in the dark. But Anne stood still, watching him. 

There was such naked emotion in her gaze, so many warring feelings and passions. Tenderness and sorrow, longing and regret, desire and ache. Hate too, always hate, but also such _love_ that it made him out of breath, giddy with joy. It felt like he was almost seeing her anew, meeting her for the first time. 

Anne reached towards him, took a hold of his jaw; slowly she closed the gap between them, met his lips with her own. The kiss was soft and temperate, like a slight breeze on a lazy summer day. It was familiar and knowing and effortless; a kiss between old lovers. Underneath it lurked the fervent desire, ready to ignite from the smallest spark, wanting to burn everything to the ground. But this here was good, more than good, and Athos let his mouth stay gentle against hers, savored her sweet taste. 

When they parted for breath, she stayed near to him, chest rising and falling deeply. Her warm palm was still against the side of his face, a barely-there touch against skin. In the quiet, it seemed to him that their hearts were beating in synchrony, beat matching beat. 

Then Anne’s hand withdrew, leaving his face tingling from the lost touch. The corner of her mouth lifted in the smallest of smiles. “I won’t live in the past any longer – you shouldn’t either.” With those words, she walked by, leaving him standing alone in the dark, surrounded by shadows.

It was not until the midmorning, after much torturous pondering and fragmented, disturbing dreams, when Athos would realize something he should have noticed the night before: in the middle of the night, coming from the privy, Anne had been fully dressed. 

-o-

It was dark yet, although the promise of the coming morning hung heavy in the crisp sea air. Anne gripped the wooden side of the small shallop tightly with the fingers of her uninjured hand, eyes firmly fixed on the receding city. With every moment that the boat sailed toward inland, the lights of the island grew smaller and smaller, until they were barely there at all. Like stars, fading against the lightening sky. The wind pulled the sail taut, a crest of a wave pushed them strongly ahead, and Anne willed them to go even faster. With every moment that the distance grew between them and Venice, some of the tension left her, her heart starting to slow down from its furious pounding.

After an unexpected and nearly disastrous meeting with Athos, only mere hours before, everything else had luckily gone as planned. Elena had arranged it perfectly; the valet in night duty had been in on the plan and had made sure Anne and Louise had gotten on to the waiting gondola without any difficulties. The gondolier had in turn rowed them expertly through small side canals, the inhabitants of the city slumbering on, or in some cases still drunkenly reveling, but all the same, none the wiser about their departure. In a remote and empty pier, the shallop had swayed, ready for them, and the boatman knew enough to not ask any questions. As soon as they had been abroad, the boat had bravely pushed out onto the swelling waters of the lagoon, the dark sea rough from the high winds. Hopefully soon, they would arrive near Mestre, where the carriage would be waiting for them. Although Anne was not in the habit of celebrating success prematurely, she couldn’t help the relief, _the hope_ , taking hold of her. Against all odds, it seemed she had survived yet again. 

But this time, she hadn’t done it all alone. Anne eyed the young woman, who sat curled up in the middle of the boat, her slight arms around her knees. Louise’s face shone white amid the darkness, her distress about their surroundings clear. Anne tried to give the maid a reassuring look; although the waves were high, they weren’t in the middle of a truly proper storm, just a small gale. The boatman certainly didn’t seem to be concerned as he was standing tall, steering the shallop with minimal movements. 

“We’ll soon be ashore!” Anne shouted through the wind. Normally she wouldn’t have bothered, but something about the girl tugged at her heart. And Louse had been so brilliant, so instrumental; without her Anne would still be at Ca’ Monteverdi, making desperate plans. The maid lifted her head and nodded, giving her mistress a wan, but brave smile. Anne returned it, glad anew that some years ago she had taken a chance and had decided to employ the young pickpocket permanently. In a way, Louise had reminded Anne of herself, how she had been once, long ago. And now…Louise’s skills were obviously wasted as a mere maid. She could be very much of use in the future. 

Anne pressed her injured hand against her chest, heedless of the sharp twinge of pain the slowly mending fingers still radiated. She only cared about the feel of paper against her bare skin, the knowledge that the object of all her scheming, the source of so much of her present physical suffering, the price that would guarantee a carefree living for at least a year, was resting safe and hidden against her bosom. The promise of a steady, generous income was a comfort after scraping along, always on the precipice of desperation, a ruin so final there would be no clawing back from. That kind of awful uncertainty about the future was something Athos would never understand – if he somehow lost it all, no matter what, his friends would never allow him to end up in the gutter, in degradation and squalor. 

In her mind’s eye, Anne saw Athos again, standing in the middle of the corridor, for a moment halting all of her carefully plotted plans with one touch, a single look. His apology had been a true surprise, one that she didn’t know what to do with. It had thrown her off-kilter, out of balance, had shaken her carefully constructed walls. Worse, it had made her question the secret departure she knew was inevitable, necessary. She _had_ to leave, and he could _not_ know about it. 

And so she had kissed him, knowing full well that it had been a goodbye. Perhaps the last goodbye there ever would be between them. The last kiss. The last look. The last anything. 

Something squeezed at her insides, made her short of breath. Anne imagined Athos waking up, realizing she had left – realizing that she had been after the treaties all along, had been working against him. Would he feel disappointed or vindicated that his suspicions about her had proved to be true? Would he then regret the night they had spent in each other’s arms? Would he curse every kiss, every touch between them, certain all of it had been nothing more than a masquerade? 

As impossible and earth-shaking as the thought that she would never see him again was, it was suddenly tenfold more unbearable, more unthinkable, that he should go back to thinking the very worst of her. That he should believe that everything, – her apology about Thomas, her wanting him, those tearing, shattering feelings she had for him – that it all had been some carefully constructed act, when nothing could have been further from the truth. Maybe that suffocating fear, taking suddenly, maddeningly ahold of her, was the reason she had written the note to him. She had wanted to leave something of herself behind, some sign that belied the cruelness of her departure, the finality of their parting. 

Even now, Anne could not make herself regret the words she had hastily written to him, the papers she had carefully folded and left for him to find. On a whim she had altered her plans, had given away something that could have later possibly proved to be an advantage. And still, she did not regret it. What Athos would make of the note, she had no power over; she could only hope that he would see it as the peace offer, the apology, the bittersweet goodbye, it was intended to be. 

And if that kiss in the darkened corridor had really been the last kiss they would ever share – if her hand against his cheek the last touch – those letters pressed to a paper her last words to him – then perhaps after everything they had gone through together in Venice, they could, if not side by side, then at least apart, finally leave the past behind.


	25. Gone

_I can be forced to live without happiness,_   
_But I will never consent to live without honor._

\- Pierre Corneille (1606–1684) - 

-o-

_The Fifth of March, 1631. Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

“She’s gone.”

It took Porthos a few confused moments to realize who d’Artagnan meant with his breathless proclamation. The lad had charged into the room just after the usual nine o’clock breakfast, face solemn and eyes flashing with ire. “It seems Milady and Louise left the city sometime last night; all their things are gone.” 

“Where’s Athos? Does he know?” Aramis pushed the breakfast tray hurriedly away from his lap, the dishes with their half-eaten food tilting alarmingly. He looked like he was going to try to get out of bed; Porthos moved quickly to intercept his foolhardy friend. Aramis gave him a grumpy look, but consented to settle back against the pillows without any protests. 

“He discovered her room empty. Now he’s trying to get some information out of the Monteverdis,” d’Artagnan told them, his lackluster tone of voice conveying perfectly how successful he thought Athos was going to be in that endeavor. 

“He is going to blame himself for this,” Aramis sighed, “for letting her slip away.”

“Nothing short of chaining Milady to a wall and guarding her constantly would have stopped her,” d’Artagnan snorted. Unceremoniously, he sat down on Porthos’ unmade bed, stretching his long legs across the small space. 

“Is this such a bad thing?” Porthos reasoned as he absent-mindedly straightened the dishes on the tray before pulling it closer to Aramis on the bed. “It’s one less complication for us.” He gave his bedridden friend a meaningful look; Aramis had to make a more diligent effort at eating his meal if he was to get better sooner rather than later. 

“It all depends on her motives. Why did she leave now? Has it got something to do with the Duke? Does she know about our plans for tomorrow?” Aramis mused, his expression pensive. With quick fingers, he snatched the remaining piece of bread from the tray and started to nibble at it slowly. 

“Maybe she got enough of this whole business and decided to try her luck elsewhere.” Even as Porthos said the words, he found it hard to believe them. Milady had never been a woman to give anything up easily or without a hefty body count. 

“Let’s hope so,” d’Artagnan remarked quietly, but he too, didn’t sound very convinced. 

They lapsed into apprehensive silence, each of them pondering what this new development would mean for their mission, if it would prove to be a hurdle or a blessing. Porthos’ thoughts also turned to his absent friend; he wondered what Athos was feeling, whether he was relieved or angry or something else altogether. He couldn’t begin to fathom the complex web of volatile feelings that tied Athos and Milady together, couldn’t understand the tight, unbreakable grip the woman seemed to have on him, how the never spoken but always present past continued to steer his friend’s destiny. Athos always kept his feelings carefully private, even more so when his former wife was in question; her whole existence had been a painful secret until her actions had forced Athos to finally confess his past to his friends. Only one thing Porthos was certain of: whatever Athos was feeling about Milady’s departure, no doubt he would do his utmost to hide it. 

Soon, Porthos had the chance to appraise his friend’s mood with his own eyes, as Athos stepped inside the room not long after d’Artagnan. He looked heavy-hearted, his straight-faced expression tense around the edges. Athos met all three inquiring gazes with a steady, solemn look. With his typical fashion, he didn’t beat around the bush, but went straight to the point. “The Monteverdis assured me they have no idea _at all_ how or why she left.” 

“You believe them?” D’Artagnan asked, withdrawing his legs from their sprawl, although Athos didn’t make any move to come further into the small room. He stood straight, back against the door, posture deceptively casual. But Porthos knew that stance; it was usually deployed when faced with an unknown person, a potential threat. 

“I believe that the Signore is probably ignorant of it; the Signora, not so much. Somehow Anne got her to help; in all likelihood Elena Monteverdi thinks she helped her friend escape her abusive husband.”

“That _witch_ ,” d’Artagnan muttered, the anger that Milady always evoked in him as strong and incendiary as ever. Porthos agreed wholeheartedly with the sentiment.

“I did nothing to dispel that image,” Athos said sharply, “after all, it was all part of the cover story – I can’t exactly fault her for playing along and taking advantage of it.”

Porthos could see that d’Artagnan disagreed, but the lad wisely kept his silence on the matter. Athos certainly was aware of all their animosity towards Milady; it didn’t help any for them to now heap it all on him. 

“What else happened?” Aramis was watching Athos almost unrelentingly, his gaze searching and finding all the small chinks in their friend’s armor. Athos gave him a fleeting, humorless smile and took something from under his doublet. It was a few sheets of paper, folded and sealed. 

“I found this.” When Athos handed the papers to Aramis, Porthos could see that the red seal had been broken. Curious, he craned his neck to see better, as Aramis opened the papers and quickly examined the writing. 

“This is _the treaty_ – the treaty between the Duke and the Council of Ten.” Aramis sounded astonished, and the tray was once again pushed aside with his restless movement. 

“What?” Porthos could hardly believe it, that the very thing they had so unsuccessfully sought after was now in their possession – and that they themselves apparently had had nothing to do with its acquisition. Was luck finally on their side? Or was this a dangerous red herring, a feint for some nefarious purpose?

“She left it for me to find,” Athos explained, although to Porthos, that explained hardly anything. And Athos sounded far too measured, looked entirely too composed; it was a sure sign that a veritable storm of emotions was laying siege to his inner walls, trying to tear his cold professional calm away piece by piece. In Porthos’ experience, his friend’s struggle against his own emotions always ended in a heavy drinking spell – he could already predict that once the mission was over, Athos would disappear from the garrison for a week or more. 

“Why would she give this to you...I mean, did she give any reason…” Porthos knew he was bumbling with his awkward questions, but didn’t know any tactful way of asking what had to be on all their minds: why would a woman, who provably _hated_ Athos and the rest of them, not to mention had tried to _kill_ them, help them in any way? Why would a woman, who only thought of her own self-interest, relinquish an immensely important document that could bring her both influence and wealth? 

Athos shook his head, his eyes skirting away from them. “Nothing that would explain this.”

“How did she even get that?” D’Artagnan asked, incredulous. 

“And if she had this, where is the other treaty? Does she have it? And if so, why didn’t she keep this one too?” Aramis wondered, still carefully examining the document.

“Maybe…she didn’t need it.” D’Artagnan looked contemplative, but his words were infused with certainty. “Maybe she just needed the treaty that the Duke made with Savoy. Louise – Milady’s maid – told me that right before they came here, they were in Savoy. That’s where they met the Monterverdis. I forgot all about it in the rush to find Aramis.” 

“Savoy…” Athos had a faraway look in his eyes. Porthos was used to the way his friend was constantly considering and reviewing information, calculating how it all affected their current mission or generally their lives and profession. And although Athos now looked to be in the middle of one of his common planning phases, there was a different quality to it than usually. Porthos couldn’t quite name what it was – perhaps something rawer, more charged. 

“And we know of someone there, who…has both France’s and Savoy’s best interests in mind,” Aramis reminded them, carefully leaving out anything that was too dangerous to say even in a locked room. Judging from d’Artagnan’s and Athos’ sharpening expressions, they realized who Aramis was talking about the same moment as Porthos did. 

“It would save Savoy from a wealth of problems, not to mention embarrassment, if the deal they made with Venice just disappears.” Athos’ somber expression cracked momentarily, when the corner of his mouth twitched from satisfaction; they were finally on the right track. The messy knot of players and different motives was starting to unravel. 

“More than that,” Porthos couldn’t help but comment gruffly, “the Cardinal could have used the treaty to extort concessions from Savoy – hell, it would be the perfect reason for _war_.” In light of this new speculation, Porthos didn’t feel too incensed that they had lost their chance of getting the document. If it truly was as they suspected, if the Duchess of Savoy had plotted to save her husband and adoptive country from the machinations of the Cardinal…well then, good for her. 

“That still leaves us with a problem,” Aramis said, eyes and voice solemn. “We only have one treaty – the one we promised to give to the Venetians.” 

“That _we_ promised; you didn’t exactly have any say to it,” Porthos was quick to point out. Aramis shouldn’t shoulder any blame for it; it had been entirely out of his hands. If anyone, it was Porthos, who had strongly pushed for _Il Rosso’s_ help at any cost. And even now, knowing they could be going home to their King with no evidence against the Duke, he didn’t regret it. Aramis’ life was more than worth it. 

“But it happened _because_ of me.” Aramis looked disgruntled and frustrated. “Because I got ambushed like some novice –”

“It’s done,” Athos interrupted emphatically. “We all made mistakes, and there is no use to dwell on the past. What is done is done and there is no helping it now.”

“So, we are going to give the treaty to _Il Rosso_?” D’Artagnan inquired quietly. 

Athos sighed, resigned. “I gave my word.” He didn’t have to justify it further. They all understood. At any moment, nearly everything could be taken away from them, wealth and health and their very lives, all except their honor. Honor was the thing that made them Musketeers, separated them from lesser men. To relinquish it willingly was unthinkable. 

“Are we still going to follow the original plan?” Porthos didn’t think that any alternative plan they now scraped together would be any better than the one the Inquisitor had set for them. 

“I think that’s best. We apprehend the Duke with the help of _Il Rosso’s_ men, search him and pretend to find the evidence then. If we give the treaty to them now, the Venetians might start to think that they don’t need us – or the Duke – anymore,” Athos explained dryly, “and then our departure from here would certainly be even more…eventful.”

“And the Venetians don’t have to know that we didn’t find both treaties.” Aramis’ voice was soft as he looked at Athos meaningfully. “It would do no good for anyone for them to find out about Milady’s part in this.” 

Athos nodded, glanced at Aramis gratefully and said, “We have to be ready to leave at any moment tomorrow, although I doubt that the Duke wakes up very early. At least our departure is easily explained – I am chasing after my fleeing wife.” In truth, they would of course do no such thing, even if they had wanted to; the apprehension of the Duke – and his protection – took precedence. Porthos wondered, if given the opportunity, Athos would have ridden after Milady or if he would have let her go.

“I’ll go play my part then.” Everything settled, Athos turned towards the door. Just before stepping out of the room, he looked back and straight-faced, remarked to Aramis, “Eat your breakfast.”

As the door closed behind Athos, the convalescent grimaced and muttered something less than complimentary. “You heard him,” Porthos chimed in and mercilessly pushed the tray once more onto his friend’s lap. The half-eaten soup had already cooled down and the thick slices of pork had an unappealing coat of congealed fat. 

“Bon appétit!” D’Artagnan wished cheerfully. 

-o-

The first day of fasting after the end of the Carnival neared already afternoon, when the Duke of Orléans felt like getting up – or at least stumbling the few feet it took him to reach the bedpan. His head was aching and hammering most awfully from the hellish slop he had drunk the night before and the floor was cold and unsteady beneath his bare feet. He emptied his bladder and then tried to get something to come up, but his queasy stomach refused to cooperate. Deeply annoyed, but too tired to do anything about it, Gaston settled back amongst the silken bedsheets, closing his eyes against the brightness. Some moron had left the thick curtains partially open and daylight was flooding in to the bedroom. 

The night before was a confusing blur: there had been drinking and dancing and women and more drinking. A crushing crowd of masked faces that now swirled around in his mind, mocking and jeering. He couldn’t remember if he had shared his bed with someone or how he had even gotten back from the St Mark’s Square to Ca’ Gonzaga. Thinking about it all made his head _throb_ from pain. Gaston decided that last night didn’t matter. Undoubtedly, he had been in better parties.

He lay in bed some time, until the bedpan called again. The wine carafe was at an easy grabbing distance; he took that with him back to the bed. Someone knocked on the door, and Gaston yelled at them to leave him bloody well alone. He had no tolerance for stupid servants or his tiring, boring hosts. Thank God he was leaving the city tomorrow.

When Gaston finally managed to rise, knowing that he had to start to get ready for his farewell dinner at the Doge’s palace, the day definitely didn’t get any better. It took a sharp turn towards nightmarish instead: the treaties he had carefully kept close to his chest last night, were now gone. Frantic, he searched with shaking hands his clothes, the whole room, everywhere he could think of, but the documents were nowhere to be found. They had been taken, _stolen_. 

Stunned, Gaston fell hard to his knees, heart thudding painfully fast. What on earth was he to do now? He was well aware that the treaties had been the only thing that had kept his daring scheme from falling apart amid cowardly partners, who had gotten second thoughts as soon as there had been even a hint of resistance. Moreover, the treaties had been an insurance against both the Venetians and the Duke of Savoy, preventing them from shoving their share of the treason into Gaston’s shoulders or from getting rid of him entirely. It was nothing short of disastrous that that insurance was now gone. 

He moaned and vomited onto the floor, throat burning from the sour aftertaste. Damn them all to the deepest pit of hell! He was among traitorous _snakes_ ; it mattered little who had gotten the treaties, whether it was King Louis’ agents or some Venetian or another. It only mattered that he didn’t have the papers; now he was without a trump card, alone without reliable allies, not having even a full dozen men for his own protection. 

The putrid, sickening smell of the vomit at his side made him gag, and Gaston rose up with unsteady legs. He stared at the floor, unseeing, mind furiously searching for a way out of his dangerous predicament. If the treaties somehow reached the hands of King Louis or worse, the Cardinal…how could he defend himself against the accusations of treason? The documents had his signature too. Perhaps it would be better, if he went somewhere far away from Paris – like London – until the King’s ire had cooled down again. After all, Gaston was still the heir to the throne; he couldn’t be punished severely…right? Or perhaps his plan was still salvageable…

It all depended who had stolen the treaties and what they planned to do with them. And until those became known, there was only one thing for him to do: act like nothing at all had happened. If Gaston let anyone know that he didn’t have the documents anymore, he would lose most of the leverage he had over the Venetians. That was not an option. He would play along and go to the farewell dinner with a smug smile on his face, like nothing was wrong. Gaston knew what was expected of him: he would eat his belly full, drink far too much, flirt with the women and trade subtle barbs with those he loathed. He would give no reason for anyone to suspect that his scheme wasn’t going on as planned.

And when he found out who the thief was, there would be hell to pay. He would make sure that he or she would suffer most excruciatingly, that the pain would go on and on; he would be there to hear the screams and the desperate begging that was sure to follow. He would destroy their wealth and livelihoods, their reputations and all those they loved and held dear. Gaston would crush them, break them, completely _annihilate_ them. Only after that, would he kill them. They would be sorry that they ever thought that they could gain the upper hand over him, that they could win playing against him. 

Because they had forgotten something essential: someday, sooner or later, Gaston would be sitting on the throne of France. That was inevitable.


	26. The Traitor

_Successful crimes alone are justified._

\- John Dryden (1631–1700) - 

 

-o-

_The Sixth of March, 1631. The countryside outside of Mestre, Republic of Venice._

In the end, their departure from Venice was as abrupt and without fanfare as had been their arrival to the city ten days before. To d’Artagnan, and he suspected to others also, it was a relief; he was not in the mood for ceremony or elaborate goodbyes, but was itching to get back on the road and closer to home. As soon as Leon had sent word that the Duke was leaving Venice in a few hours, the Musketeers had gathered their few, already packed belongings and had informed their hosts that they were leaving – immediately. 

To the Monteverdis’ credit, they were little surprised and didn’t try to delay their departure. Athos had done his work well the day before; it seemed that their hosts had suspected that the Comte de la Fére would soon leave to follow his disobedient wife. D’Artagnan wondered how real was the irritation and moodiness that Athos’ portrayed, if Milady’s sudden secret departure and stealing of the treaties had affected his friend more deeply than he wished them to know. 

D’Artagnan, to his own consternation, noticed that he himself hadn’t remained unaffected; he was angry that Milady had managed to deceive them, and he was – perhaps unfairly – incensed by the fact that Louise had chosen to remain loyal to her mistress and had gone with the traitorous witch. Although, what else could the maid had done, as her entire livelihood very likely depended on Milady, he could not tell. He also still felt the sting of failure at having forgotten the crucial detail of the women being in Savoy until it had been too late. If only he had remembered sooner…But as Athos had said, what was done was done. They had all done mistakes during the mission, but now they had to focus on what lay ahead: the Duke’s arrest and all of their safe return to Paris. 

The midmorning had yet to turn into noon, when they arrived at the stable, where they had left their horses. The animals were excited to see them, no doubt having been bored at being idle so long and without their masters’ care. D’Artagnan studied his own steed carefully, judging if the horse had suffered from any mistreatments or other calamity. Luckily, none was apparent and he paid the stable’s owner the agreed sum without complaint. Then, without any further delay, the Musketeers gladly mounted their horses and rode out of town. 

The walls of Mestre fell out of their sight and the gently sloping countryside greeted them. The signs of early spring were everywhere around them: green plants pushed up stubbornly from the brown earth, a few small flowers were already beginning to hesitantly bloom, and birds flew excitedly above the fields. The air was pleasantly warm and smelled fresh – a nice change to the ripe stink of cities and towns. D’Artagnan felt himself lighten, the oppressive atmosphere of Venice falling further behind him as they rode ahead. He knew that the most dangerous part of their mission was still to come, but couldn’t help the almost gleeful feeling that was born of being back on the road with his trusted companions. 

Just ahead of d’Artagnan, Athos was leading the group, sitting tall and straight astride his own horse. Although he had hardly exchanged any words during the ride, and d’Artagnan had a better view of his leather-clad back than of his face, Athos seemed more focused and calm than he had at any time in Venice. It gave him hope that perhaps this time his friend would get over Milady’s latest treachery with less dire consequences than the last time, when it had taken Athos months to drag himself up from the darkly melancholy mood that had manifested in heavy drinking, short temper and even sharper laconic wit than usual. D’Artagnan had no wish to repeat the experience. 

Behind him, Aramis and Porthos followed, their conversation purposefully carefree. D’Artagnan listened to their jesting with a grin, content to let the words weave a familiar camaraderie around their small group. He kept an ear out for any signs of fatigue and pain in Aramis’ voice, and he would have turned around in the saddle more to check his still ailing companion, if he would have thought he could get away with it. But d’Artagnan knew such an action would only annoy Aramis, and besides, Porthos was no doubt already watching their friend like a hawk. There would be no chance that Aramis would suddenly keel over or ride himself into exhaustion. 

Deciding that, for the moment, all was as well as it could be, d’Artagnan let himself enjoy his surroundings. For days, he had been forced to play in a twisted, dangerous game, shackled to a role that had given him little pleasure; now he could be _himself_ again. D’Artagnan, the King’s Musketeer. Not a lying spy or a false valet. More than that, he was going home. His heart beat faster just from thinking of Constance, of her sweet face and unfailing honesty. Had she missed him while he had been gone? Could that have been enough to change her mind, to persuade her to give them a chance to be together? He would give almost anything, if that were to be so… 

Enticing thoughts about the woman he loved were brought to a sudden halt, when the travelers came to a junction on the road. It was the appointed place, where they would wait for the Duke and his entourage. A good spot for an ambush, the road was lined with tall, thick hedges on both sides, and in the middle, where the road forked into two, was a deep, muddy ditch. D’Artagnan eyed the pit with suspicion; he bet that someone would end up there. It just better not be _him_. 

After being both the authors and recipients of many ambushes, the Musketeers knew their roles thoroughly and dismounted in silence, taking the horses to a safe distance away and settling out of sight on both sides of the road. D’Artagnan found himself half inside the bushes, the thorny branches pricking his skin distractingly. He resigned himself for a long wait; in his experience, the high and mighty were _always_ behind schedule. 

Aramis and Porthos had taken positions on the other side of the road, while Athos had settled a few feet away from d’Artagnan. They waited in silence, listening for any sound of approaching travelers. They waited, and the sun rose steadily higher. D’Artagnan’s sharp attention towards watching the road started to wane, his thoughts turning into the man by his side. After a brief, silent debate with himself, he plunged ahead and voiced what he had wanted to ask ever since they had arrived in Venice. 

“How is one supposed to properly press those damn shirts?”

The deep silence that greeted his question was full of incredulity. D’Artagnan could just imagine his friend’s raised eyebrows and barely held-back grin. 

“Yeah, I know, this is hardly the place, but it has been vexing me,” he continued, unrepentant. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Athos answered, smirk evident in his voice, “for I had a _valet_ to do it.”

“Was he better than me?” 

“D’Artagnan –” Athos paused, letting the expectation for the coming quip build-up. “Almost _anyone_ would have undoubtedly been better than you. Do not change careers, you are a lousy servant.”

“I take that as a compliment.” He smiled; it was good to banter with his friend again. It seemed that Athos’ spirit wasn’t so heavy as he had feared, wasn’t dragged down into self-loathing and despair that could only be drowned in a large amount of strong drink. D’Artagnan wasn’t sure how the circumstances of Milady’s betrayal differed from the last time she had deceived his friend, but he took it as a good sign that Athos’ reaction to it at least seemed somewhat different. Maybe he had gotten over her. However, there was no chance in hell that d’Artagnan was going to ask him about it. He wasn’t suicidal. 

Reluctant to abandon the jesting, he continued, “Belief me, those menial tasks were _torture_ –”, but the sound of hooves and men cut him abruptly short.

On the road, there were riders coming towards them. 

-o-

Despite the fracture in his right arm, Aramis loaded his rifle quickly and efficiently; it hurt like hell, but that was life. The Duke’s entourage was steadily coming closer, the horses trotting towards the junction on the road, where the Musketeers waited them with bated breath. The next few moments would determine whether they would return to Paris as victors or losers, alive or dead. They would see if their decision to trust _Il Rosso_ would prove to be a wise or a foolish one. 

A shrill whistle from Athos was all Aramis needed to step in the middle of the road, his weapon aimed unwaveringly at the approaching riders. Porthos stepped beside him, his own trusted musket ready to fire. The vanguard was taken completely by surprise; the two soldiers foolishly yanked their bridles, their horses rearing up and coming to an abrupt halt just before Aramis. The rest of the entourage was soon following suit, the Duke among them. Amid the chaos, Athos and d’Artagnan appeared behind the disorganized group, effectively cutting off their escape.

“Halt!” Porthos boomed, “In the name of King Louis!” 

For a small moment the Duke’s soldiers seemed to hesitate, perhaps weighing the pros and cons of the situation; their ambushers were not that many, but if they really had the authority of the French king…

“They are robbers and murderers! Fight them!” The Duke yelled, goading his men into action. He drew his rapier from the scabbard, but Aramis noted that Gaston stayed carefully in the middle of his escort, surrounded by men, who offered ample cover.

“Now, there’s no reason to be uncivil,” Aramis quipped. “After all, I’m sure we are all men of _honor_.” Blood rushed inside his body, gloriously giving strength to aching muscles, banishing any feelings of weariness and illness. He stared at the richly-clad peacock atop his horse, knowing he would fight and _win_ to get to the man. He would fight them all singlehandedly if he had to. That man was responsible for the torture he had endured – but more than that, the man was a traitor to _France_.

“You’re _mad_ ,” the Duke sneered, “you cannot win. There are only four of you against twenty.” 

“Count again,” Porthos growled, and as if on cue, the Duke’s entourage exploded into violence – amongst themselves. A man raised his musket and fired, killing a soldier next to him; another shoved his blade deep into the back of the nearest man. It was brutal and quick – the Duke and his soldiers were taken completely by surprise. Their comrades had betrayed them. 

More than half of the men escorting the Duke were Venetians; his own soldiers in short supply, Gaston had resorted to loaning guards from his Venetian host Gonzaga. However, the men, who had been tasked with his protection, were really in the pay of the Inquisitor. They were led by Leon, the small statured spy, who observed the fighting around him with passionless calm. 

The Venetians made quick work of the French soldiers, not showing them any mercy. Aramis felt a twinge of uneasiness at the sight of the butchery; he didn’t agree that anyone, let alone his fellow countrymen, should be killed without first giving them a chance to surrender. And although they could have laid down their arms at the very beginning of the ambush, they couldn’t have known that the real ambush was yet to come.

“Traitors!” The Duke hissed, looking enraged. He still sat atop his horse, face white with fury and fear. His men lay dead on the ground, and the Venetians surrounded him with loaded muskets, not giving him any opportunity to escape. 

“I have never worked for _you_ ,” Leon answered, sounding slightly amused. His companions stayed silent, looking anything but contrite. “He is all yours,” the spy continued, this time addressing his words to Athos, who walked briskly to the Duke’s side. 

“We are the King’s Musketeers, and we have been tasked to –”

“So this is what the famed Musketeers have resorted to,” Gaston spat. “Working with spies and traitors of a foreign nation against the royalty of your own country.”

“Your Highness, you are under arrest on suspicion of treason,” Athos stated calmly, his face expressionless. 

“You don’t have any authority to arrest me!”

“We have the authority of _the King_.” Athos took out the letter King Louis had given them, the letter which stated clearly that they had the authority to arrest any French citizen, even on foreign soil. He handed it out to the Duke, who upon gazing the writing, turned even paler. 

“Now, dismount and disarm yourself,” Athos ordered. It was clear from the tone of his voice that he would tolerate no opposition. The Duke of Orléans showed that he possessed some common sense – or more likely, self-preservation – and did as commanded, although with the most reluctant air imaginable. 

Porthos had already moved closer to the pair, and now pushed inside the circle of armed Venetians, taking his place beside the Duke. It was his job to keep an eye on Gaston, while Athos ‘searched’ for the evidence. D’Artagnan and Aramis stayed where they were, at the front and the back of the gathering. They could quickly go on to the defensive and help their friends if needed. Naturally, they didn’t wholly trust Leon and his men to leave peacefully once they had gotten what they had been promised. 

Athos started going through the Duke’s saddlebags, and Aramis tensed, watching the Venetians carefully. Would they notice Athos slip the documents amongst Gaston’s things? Would they even care as long as they got the treaty? 

It was the first time the Musketeers had planted evidence, and to all intents and purposes, it went smashingly. Athos didn’t pointlessly drag it out, but drew the sheets of paper from the saddlebag and pretended to examine them briefly. 

“What –” Gaston began, sounding astonished, but luckily quickly realized it was best not to continue. The light shove Porthos had given him might have had something to do with it. 

“These treaties prove your disloyalty to King Louis and to France,” Athos remarked sternly, looking straight at the Duke. “We are escorting you back to Paris, where you will face judgement for your crimes.” 

Without any hesitation, Athos then walked to Leon. “France gives its thanks to Venice for the help it gave to solving this matter.” He handed the beady-eyed spy half of the papers – the real treaty – and put the remaining sheets inside his doublet. Unfortunately, it was just a fake document they had hurriedly made the night before to throw off any questions of the whereabouts of the second treaty. It would be of no help to them in Paris, for they couldn’t very well present it as evidence of treason. But the Duke – and the Venetians – didn’t know that yet. 

Leon studied the treaty carefully, and after judging it to be authentic, grinned and tipped his hat to them. “Gentlemen, it was a pleasure doing business with you. However – don’t come back.” He whistled sharply and like a pack of hunting hounds, the rest of the Venetians turned to follow him. 

Aramis watched as the men rode away, the pressure slowly easing around his lungs. The further the riders moved, the more he relaxed. When the Venetians had vanished from his view, Aramis lowered his rifle, suddenly feeling the sharp ache in his right arm.

“I have no idea where those papers came from!” The Duke exclaimed, indignant. “I have been framed! The King will hear about this!” Alone with the Musketeers, Gaston probably now felt safe enough to complain and protest. 

“Oh, I’m sure,” Aramis muttered, thinking that the journey home would be anything but pleasant with the Duke among their group. There already was a calculating expression on his face; Aramis didn’t doubt for a moment that the man wasn’t feverishly trying to find a way out of his predicament.

“Let’s go,” Athos urged, clearly wanting them to get moving towards France as quickly as was possible. Aramis agreed with him; they were courting trouble every moment they stayed on Venetian soil. 

As d’Artagnan and Athos went to retrieve the Musketeers’ horses, Aramis walked to each of the bodies on the ground, repeating a short prayer in his mind. They would have no time to bury the dead, but at least they could take care of the animals that, now without their riders, were milling around the scene restlessly. Besides, the extra horses would be of use; they could travel that much faster, if they changed horses every time the animals tired. 

“Best not do that,” Porthos suddenly announced jovially, “lest there be an unfortunate accident.” 

Aramis swiveled around to see the Duke bent towards the ground, obviously trying to get his hands on a dead man’s rapier. Porthos, who kept holding the bridle of the Duke’s horse, was aiming his musket at Gaston confidently with one hand. Despite his genial tone of voice, his eyes were hard and cold. Gaston froze mid-movement, slowly straightening up. He was intelligent enough to realize that Porthos would have gladly shot him without much provocation. 

Aramis couldn’t blame his friend; he knew it must have rankled Porthos fiercely that the Duke was unlikely to be punished for ordering his men to torture Aramis. They would have to settle for him to be convicted for his crimes against the King and France instead.

Something bright glinted in the corner of his eye; instinctively, without any thought, Aramis was already moving. He slammed into the Duke, throwing the other man out of balance. Just in time: the explosive sound of a shot hitting the ground beside them was deafening. 

Aramis covered the Duke with his own body, his rifle lying uselessly some distance away. He couldn’t remember dropping it. A horse was whinnying in fear, more shots were fired, and Porthos yelled, “Stay down!” Aramis had no plans to do otherwise; they had little enough cover in the ditch, where he and the Duke had somehow ended up. 

The exchange of fire didn’t last but a small moment that still seemed to stretch into eternity. By the time Athos and d’Artagnan hurried to the scene, the situation was already over. 

“Single shooter, some distance away. I think I got him,” Porthos growled.

“The Duke?” Athos inquired, sounding worried. 

“Here,” Aramis groaned and shifted away from the spluttering man half-buried beneath him. Everything in him ached and hurt and worse, there was fetid, thick mud in his mouth and face and _everywhere_. 

“Are you alright?” D’Artagnan asked. The bastard was clearly trying hard not to laugh. 

“Just peachy,” Aramis grouched back, for once agreeing whole-heartedly with the Duke, who was spewing colorful curses in several languages. 

It was going to be a long road back to home.


	27. Checkmate

_A person often meets his destiny on the road he took to avoid it._

\- Jean de La Fontaine (1621 - 1695) -

-o-

_The Sixth of March, 1631. The countryside outside of Mestre, Republic of Venice._

The traces of dark blood were still fresh, staining the rock, against which the shooter had reclined while taking the shots. But of the assassin himself, there was no further trace. Even wounded, he had managed to escape, taking with him all of his gear. Only the blood and the lingering scent of gunpowder remained as evidence of the attempted foul deed.

Athos watched the surrounding countryside closely, trying to spot any movement in the distance, any hint of the shooter. Nothing – all was quiet and still. It was the time of the siesta, and nothing moved on the road or across the fields, nothing but wild animals. He couldn’t even see his own party, which he and d’Artagnan had left to wait for them in a relatively secluded place at some distance away. 

The young lad clambered up the small mound and stepped beside Athos, looking both hopeful and resigned. “There are some horse tracks half a mile away – probably from the shooter’s horse. If we follow them –”

“No.” He knew d’Artagnan didn’t deserve the curt and uncharitable tone, but this latest failure rankled deeply. No doubt the Musketeers could have tracked the assassin with their considerable skill, but there was no time for such a hunt. Not even to catch the Cardinal’s mercenary. For Athos was certain it had been Gérard that had tried to kill the Duke, and not any of the many Venetians. The Venetians had already gotten what they wanted, and it didn’t make any sense for them to want Gaston dead – well, any more than anyone wanted the bastard dead – and besides, Athos just had a _feeling_ , something that could not really be put into a rational explanation. It had been Gérard. 

Anne’s wraith-white face flashed across his mind, accompanied by her heart-rending wail and halting sobs, the sickening crunch of bone. He had promised to kill that man. Once again it seemed that his promises were for naught. 

“No, we have to get the Duke to Paris as soon as possible,” Athos explained, trying to moderate his tone of voice. It was not d’Artagnan’s fault that nothing had gone as Athos had first envisioned. Neither was it his friend’s fault that the duty was heavier to bear than ever before, its constraints feeling for the first time like true shackles. The duty forced him to ride in a wholly different direction than a man, who should have been rightly put six feet into the ground. The duty bound him to protect another man, who wasn’t just a traitor to France but the instigator of Aramis’ torture. The duty had no room for personal quests – it didn’t matter, if he wanted to go after Anne or not. Anything but a swiftest route to Paris was impossible. 

“Yeah, I know.” D’Artagnan didn’t sound any more pleased about it than Athos was. The young man looked at the wide expanse of land with a frown. “Coming here…what happened…it was nothing like I expected it to be.” 

“No, it wasn’t.” Unbidden and sudden, Anne’s lovely eyes, warmly smiling at him. The whispered truth in the darkness, painful and raw. A long-missing piece, slotting back into its place with the ease of rightness, of _belonging_. With every moment that now passed, she was further and further away from him, ripping his heart to shreds anew.

“Are we…” the words were hesitant, unsure of their welcome, “…are we going to tell everything to the King?” Athos knew what d’Artagnan really meant: are we going to tell about _her_? That the former spy of Cardinal had not only given them one treaty but had also absconded into the night with the other? It would put them all under suspicion; it would also undoubtedly make Anne into an enemy of the state. And what the King knew, the Cardinal would certainly come to know too. 

“I will not lie to the King,” Athos said heavily. The words, despite being born from a bedrock of honor, felt like a wretched betrayal. But what else could he do if he was asked the truth? Athos had been cornered; he had been thoroughly snared into a position that there was no easy or honorable escape from. 

“Perhaps the King doesn’t really care _who_ or _why_ …After all, his own brother has conspired against him.”

“Of which we can offer him no tangible proof,” Athos pointed out caustically. “The Venetians have one treaty and are sure to keep it under lock and key until a suitable opportunity presents itself to make the most of it; Milady has the other and is profiting from it as we speak, hopefully selling it to our ally in Savoy – at least then it causes the least harm – and we have only a badly forged copy, which in the end is really not evidence of anything.” 

“What if the Duchess testifies about the plot, or better yet, presents the treaty to the King? Or she could at least deliver it to us in secret?” D’Artagnan sounded hopeful – naively so, Athos thought uncharitably. 

“She will never act against her husband in that way. To her, I suspect, it is enough that the scheme itself has been foiled. It befits her more than well, if Savoy’s part in the plot can never be proven.” Christine of France had played her game well, and so had the Venetians, while Anne had managed to deceive and lie her way once again to success. It was only the Musketeers – Athos _himself_ – who had blundered about in the dark, always one step behind their adversaries. 

A heavy silence settled between them, full of pensive thoughts that were in stark contrast with the charming Venetian countryside surrounding them. All seemed peaceful; the troubles of men were mundane and insignificant against the vast and unmovable nature. The land would continue to live and grow another thousand years and more in a continuous cycle of death and rebirth. A scheme against a King was nothing, just a small speck in the wind; a cracked heart was even less so.

“How are you?” The quiet, carefully spoken question took Athos by surprise. He had assumed that none of his companions would dare to inquire it so directly; that the unspoken agreement they had about not to talk about such things would have held at least a while longer. 

“I will be…as I was before.” Athos felt his mouth twist into something that hopefully resembled a small smile. “There’s nothing we can accomplish by loitering here; let’s go.” He started to decidedly descend the mound towards their horses, leaving d’Artagnan to scramble to catch up to him. What the lad had expected with his question? Athos had no intention to start to dissect his feelings to anyone. They were a right mess, not making any sense even to himself. 

He wanted so badly to just let Anne go and never think of her again; equally desperately he wanted to chase after her and make her pay for everything she had done, for everything she made him feel. Athos wanted to shake her and shout at her and kiss her and touch her. He needed to see her, to make sure she was well, to make her _feel_ his anger and disappointment and hurt. He had to know why Anne had left the other treaty behind – why she had given it to _him_. Because of some kind of penance or atonement? Or because of something else altogether?

And beneath all of these tangled thoughts and questions was still one, so secret and painful he could barely stand to glimpse at it, before shoving it deep down again, somewhere where oblivion and denial reigned supreme. For he did not wonder, how could you once more deceive me? But instead: how could you _leave me_ again? 

-o-

_That same afternoon in Venice, the capital of the Republic of Venice._

The backdoor opened before Leon could even raise his hand to the door’s solid wooden surface; he knew that his return from ambushing the Duke’s entourage had been both expected and observed. The beggar children running wild in the harbor of Cannaregio had raced to _Il Rosso’s_ palazzo, each of them eager to be the first one to tell the news and get a few ducats for their service. 

Leon stepped inside the dim hallway; from the sharp nod of the straight-faced valet, he surmised that he were to go straight to the master’s study without any dely. Not waiting for the servant to show the way, he went briskly up the backstairs; Leon knew the palazzo like the back of his own hand, had practically grown up in its large kitchen, eating scraps and sleeping in the nook beside the huge oven. With his quick feet and nimble fingers, he had first run the kitchen staff’s many errands, but his talents had soon been recognized and he had become one of the master’s personal, trusted couriers. From there, he had schemed and fought, until he had finally gotten the position of _Il Rosso’s_ top spy, his most trusted man. 

Up the stairs and through the hallways; although the route was fairly straightforward, in a big palazzo it took time to reach his destination. The servants he encountered, many of whom he knew all the way from his early years, lowered their eyes as they passed him. Leon hadn’t been a part of their ilk for a long time – he was something separate, something feared and respected and resented. He still served the same master, but in a role that elevated him above the common servant. 

The ornamental study door was closed, and Leon didn’t hesitate to announce his arrival by knocking on it loudly. Almost immediately, he was called inside the richly decorated room, where Antonio Gabrieli, Inquisitor of the Supreme Tribunal of Venice, was already waiting for him. Of course it didn’t seem like _Il Rosso_ had been keenly anticipating Leon’s arrival; that would have been unseemly and foolish. Antonio Gabrieli was a man, who didn’t relinquish his power or advantage by presenting anything but the most indestructible façade at all times.

And so the master of the palazzo turned to face the newcomer in the room with a carefully constructed frown on his face, like Leon had rudely interrupted him and his guest during a most riveting chess game. Both men sat in a high-backed chairs, a small round table between them, which held a chess board and two wineglasses. White and dark pieces were scattered across the checked board, seemingly haphazardly. The surge of annoyance at the sight was familiar and Leon quickly damped it down; he had never learned to play and detested not knowing the meaning behind the pieces’ positions. He could not tell which one of the men was winning, but if he had to guess, he would have bet his money on the Inquisitor. _Il Rosso_ always won. 

“Well?” Antonio Gabrieli inquired, not a hint of impatience appearing in his voice. Leon, however, was not fooled: the news he carried had most certainly been eagerly expected ever since he had left that morning as a part of the Duke’s entourage. 

“All went as planned. Gaston’s men are dead, and the _Highness_ himself has been arrested by the Musketeers for treason. They are on their way back to Paris as we speak.” Leon didn’t bother to question if he should tell everything in the presence of the guest; the man had been a regular visitor in Gabrieli’s palazzo for many years and a constant contributor in his schemes. More importantly, _Il Rosso_ had obviously let the man stay to hear the news. Leon, who had never really trusted the man, who now sat relaxed opposite his master, didn’t have the final say on the matter, although he had aired his suspicions more than once. The guest knew it too, for the merchant couldn’t quite hide the glint of malicious pleasure in his eyes. 

“And you got it?” Gabrieli’s tone had hardened; he disliked being made to wait for anything, be it information or his dinner. 

“Yes,” Leon affirmed, letting his satisfaction manifest itself in his crooked smile. He took the treaty out of its hiding place inside his doublet and handed it to the Inquisitor. Gabrieli opened the papers and took his time to examine them carefully, making sure that what he held in his hands really was the genuine article, the very same that the members of the Council of Ten had so foolishly signed only days earlier. It was – Leon had already made sure of it. 

“Another crisis successfully diverted then. Leon, you have really outdone yourself this time, spying and backstabbing and rolling in the gutter – or whatever it is you normally do. You should have a raise,” Giovanni Monteverdi chuckled, his shrewd gaze locked onto Leon’s reddening face. The hints about less than noble behavior didn’t bother him one jot – none of them were guilty of too honorable conduct – and the dig about his humble origins even less so. But the talk about pay raised Leon’s hackles, for it was a matter that belonged only between him and his employer. It also slyly implied that he wasn’t already sufficiently paid for his services and loyalty. 

“Leon’s pay is between me and him,” Gabrieli said almost absent-mindedly, still looking over the treaty. But there was a core of steel underneath his words that told the other men to leave the matter well enough alone. “But I agree –” he then raised his eyes and smirked at Leon, “you have earned every ducat.” That was probably the highest praise Leon had ever gotten from his master, who didn’t have a habit of thanking his servants profusely – or at all. 

“Those troublesome Frenchmen are finally out of Venice, and this…” _Il Rosso_ mused, looking at the treaty with great satisfaction, “this is going to be very useful someday, whether it is Louis or Gaston on the French throne.”

“What about the Contessa?” Leon asked, none too innocently. The Frenchwoman had managed to leave Ca’ Monteverdi without the notice of its occupants – or at least without the notice of its master. Leon had his own suspicions of who had helped the Contessa leave Venice in secret. He watched, gratified, as the merchant’s jovial smile dimmed with the remainder of his own recent failure. 

_Il Rosso_ looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “She doesn’t matter anymore. Whatever part she played in this…as long as she stays away from Venice…” He put the treaty carefully inside his doublet. Later, he would secret it away into a place even Leon didn’t know of.

“None of them matter anymore,” Antonio Gabrieli continued, smiling disparagingly. He raised one of the pieces on the board, knocking another down. “Checkmate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only the epilogue left! I promise I'll publish it before the holidays :)


	28. Epilogue

_Since there’s no help, come let us kiss and part._  
_Nay, I have done, you get no more of me;_  
_And I am glad, yea glad with all my heart,_  
_That thus so cleanly I myself can free._  
_Shake hands for ever, cancel all our vows,_  
_And when we meet at any time again,_  
_Be it not seen in either of our brows_  
_That we one jot of former love retain._  
_Now at the last gasp of Love’s latest breath,_  
_When, his pulse failing, Passion speechless lies;_  
_When Faith is kneeling by his bed of death,_  
_And Innocence is closing up his eyes—_  
_Now, if thou wouldst, when all have given him over,_  
_From death to life thou might’st him yet recover!_

\- Michael Drayton (1563-1631), _Since There’s No Help/Sonnet 61_ \- 

-o-

_The Sixteenth of March, 1631. Turin, the capital of the Duchy of Savoy._

The long shadows of the surrounding hills had fallen over the city, wrapping the buildings and streets in a dusky shroud. From the darkness, the stone spires and towers rose to reach for the heaven, towards the silvery bright stars that emerged from the blue-black canvas of early night sky. In the midst of these man-made structures of both faith and power was one that was fairly modest amongst its many more splendid peers. The church stood on the outskirts of the city, looking worn and abandoned. No lights shone in any of its windows. 

Behind the old walls of the church was an inner courtyard, a small square with a few trees, a well and a stone bench. Secluded and hidden, it was a perfect place to meet without being seen by prying eyes. It was the second time Anne sat on the cold and hard seat, waiting. On the bench next to her hand, but concealed under the fabric of her dress, was a loaded musket – even now, she didn’t take any chances. 

She didn’t have to wait for long; the Duchess of Savoy was right on time. Stepping into the courtyard, Christine of France walked confidently towards Anne. Even hidden by a dark cloak, her regal bearing was easily distinguishable. She came to stand directly before Anne, not a hint of apprehension or hesitation apparent on her face. It was admirable, although Anne didn’t make the mistake of believing the Duchess had come to the meeting alone. No doubt she had trusted men somewhere in the shadows, guarding her.

“I have kept my end of the bargain.” Anne went straight to the point of the matter; there was no reason for them to exchange pleasantries or empty platitudes. She also didn’t wish to stay in the city more time than was strictly necessary. Although nestled at the foot of the Alps, Turin was still too close to Venice for her taste. 

“So I hear,” Christine said, looking at Anne calmly. 

Anne took out the treaty from where it rested securely against her bosom and lay it on the stone bench, the other woman’s eyes following her every move like a hawk. Not wasting any time, Christine picked up the document, a small frown marring her otherwise self-possessed expression. It was too dark for her to read the small, squiggly text. Anne couldn’t help the little smirk that sneaked onto her face. Sometimes even the best spies forgot to take into account the smallest details. 

“I assure you, it is the real article that I went to great lengths to acquire,” Anne asserted frankly. It would have been foolish and pointless to try to deceive the Duchess of Savoy by giving her a fake treaty. Besides, Anne had always been loyal to her employers, whoever they had been. No one could claim otherwise. 

Christine tucked the document away and asked, “What about the other treaty?”

“I thought that wasn’t your concern?” After all, she had been tasked to find and acquire only the one signed by the Duke of Savoy. 

“Unfortunately, my brothers are always my concern – juts slightly less than my husband,” Christine said, her mouth pulling into a small, wry smile.

“The Musketeers managed to get it. I take it that is a preferable outcome to someone else having it?”

The Duchess nodded approvingly and presented Anne with a purse of coins. It felt heavy and solid, resting on her palm. She judged its weight to correspond to the sum she had been promised at the task’s completion. 

“I assure you, every livre you are owed are there,” Christine commented. Anne knew that it was her turn to trust the other woman, trust that the item changing hands was the real thing. She put the purse away without opening it. 

The Duchess moved to turn around, but the slight movement was aborted almost immediately. As if she had thought better of it, her eyes turned back to look at Anne. “Thank you. You did me – and Savoy – a great service.”

“And you paid very handsomely for it,” Anne reminded her, suddenly uncomfortable. Her own motives for stealing the treaty had been far from altruistic. 

“I know.” Christine gave her a small smile, somehow guileless and ironic at the same time. “Nonetheless, I am grateful. I hope that if I ever need further…assistance, I can contact you.” 

“Yes…” Anne paused and then surprised even herself by continuing, “But I am planning to…do something else for a while.” She didn’t exactly know yet what she would do, only that she wanted to be without masks, without the kind of deceit that slowly eroded one’s soul. Now she had enough money to do something else, to be whoever she wanted – to be herself, whoever that turned out to be in the end, away from all the deception and play-acting. 

“Where are you going to go now?” The Duchess sounded genuinely interested, her gaze wondering. 

“I have no idea.” And she didn’t. She and Louise could go anywhere – or almost anywhere. There were a few places she would have to avoid and one place she could _not_ go, a place she would be beyond stupid to go anywhere near any time soon. And yet, she found that was the one place out of all the places that she _wanted_ to go. 

“Good luck,” Christine of France wished and then turned, swiftly walking across the small square and vanishing inside the old stone walls of the church. Anne, despite planning on leaving Turin as soon as possible, stayed on the courtyard, her thoughts on the familiar city that lay far across the mountains and valleys. 

A city she could not return to, however much she hoped otherwise. And she did hope against all hope, with a longing that was suddenly like a visceral thing, gripping her insides and squeezing painfully. Perhaps one day she would see it again, but for now, she could only repeat the name silently in her mind, like a prayer, a wish, a promise. 

Paris. 

_Athos._

-o-

 _Two weeks later, in Paris._

The scene was ordinary and familiar, the setting of a countless nights spent drinking and gambling and watching the others’ merrymaking. _The Galleon_ hadn’t changed a bit during the time they had been gone; it was still a noisy, smoke-filled pit of vice and drunkenness. The normality of it was slightly jarring, for Athos felt strangely out of place. Like he didn’t fit anymore into the old pattern, into his role of heavy drinking and brooding in a dark corner. 

They had all changed since the last time they had spent a night in the tavern; that much was obvious to those who knew them best. D’Artagnan and Aramis had been keeping Athos company the whole night, but none of them had really said much to each other. They were all deep in their own thoughts and disappointments, both personal and professional. Only Porthos showed any signs of his usual merry self, gambling and drinking with the same red-headed wench that usually found her way into his lap. But Athos could easily see the tightness in his friend’s shoulders, the glimmer of disillusion in his eyes. Porthos was still affected by the dressing-down they had received from both the King and the Cardinal. They all were.

The King’s angry disappointment had been justified; the Musketeers had failed in their mission, at least in part. The Duke had been delivered in front of the King to face justice, but without any concrete proof but the Musketeers’ word, he was unlikely to suffer any worse than banishment. Athos doubted that a harsher penalty would have ever been possible, even if they would have gotten a wealth of evidence against Gaston. The man was royalty and still the heir to the French throne; a different, unwritten law existed for him and his like. 

As was his wont, the King’s wrath had luckily been short lived. The Musketeers’ pride had suffered a serious blow, but at least they had managed to leave The Royal Palace without demotion or any other punishment. However, to Athos the worst punishment had already been dealt; the King’s faith in his most loyal Musketeers had been shaken. He worried what that meant for them all in the future – if the Cardinal would get an even tighter grip of the young King. 

The Cardinal’s displeasure had been scathing and biting. Listening to his berating words, Athos had drawn enormous satisfaction from the fact that the Cardinal’s own plans had also failed miserably. His mercenary had left Venice even more empty handed than the Musketeers. Watching the Cardinal’s cold anger and knowing it stemmed from the man’s own failure to get his hands on the treaties had been the only bright spot during the whole hellish meeting.

It had been surprisingly difficult to tell about how they had gotten one treaty and then had lost it, to reveal Anne’s involvement with everything that had happened. Briefly Athos had entertained the idea of somehow glossing over it altogether or not revealing her identity. But it would have been futile to try to cover her part in the plot. Gérard would tell the Cardinal that she had been in Venice and Gaston had seen them handing one of the treaties to the Venetians. They had to explain all of it to the King, and although very displeased, he had seemed to understand that their honor had demanded that they keep their word to the Venetians. The missing treaty between Gaston and Savoy had worried Louis for a moment, but Anne had managed to generate some goodwill by giving the other treaty to the King through the Musketeers. 

Athos couldn’t help now but think, if that had been her motivation all along. If she had left the treaty for Athos to find only because she wanted to diminish the wrath of the King by giving him half of what he wanted? He wondered why the thought hadn’t occurred to him sooner and why it was so hard for him to believe in it. 

The night had already grown old, when d’Artagnan and Aramis decided to depart for their lodgings. They looked inquiringly at Athos, but he shook his head; he would stay a little while longer. Athos was only now reaching the bottom of his first wine bottle. The pleasant warmth of alcohol didn’t blanket his thoughts or drown his memories – everything that had happened was steel sharp in his mind, pricking him and making him bleed anew, but for the moment, he reveled in it. He didn’t want to forget anything. 

When the others had gone, Athos took a piece of paper out of its hiding place; he had carried it with him since the moment he had found it with the treaty. He had read the words innumerable times, knew them by heart. Still, he wanted to see the shape of the letters, how they were hastily drawn on the piece of paper. The stark inky lines formed the few words that felt truer than any of the long, thought-out letters he had ever received. Hope was a dangerous thing, but still, he let himself feel it. Feel the _maybe_ , the _perhaps_ , the _someday_. 

After he had tucked the paper carefully away, he still heard the words she had written echo in his ears. As if she were whispering them while they lay together in the darkness, entwined. 

_I can’t regret a single moment I ever spent with you. This may seem like an ending, but I know it’s only the beginning. Yours,_

_Anne._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally finished! Writing this story has exceeded all my expectations: it's the longest story I have ever written and also it has gotten the most kudos I have ever gotten for a story. Thank you so much for reading, commenting and giving kudos - that means the world to me.


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